I'll Be Home for the Holidays
by ChaosandMayhem
Summary: Lawrence Mundy Jr. hates the holiday season. And he especially hates when the holiday season forces him to deal with his overbearing parents, his abrasive brother-in-law, an oddly jittery Spy, and the mysterious going-ons of a factory in the distance...The sequel to Eight Mercenaries and A Toddler.
1. The Mind of Lawrence Mundy Sr

"Hey audience."

"Hey Chaos. What's new with you?"

"Oh, not much. Just got this sequel to_ Eight Mercenaries and A Toddler_ right here."

"Does it have babies in it?"

"No."

"Then I don't want to read it."

"Oh, come on! Give it a chance!"

"Well, what's it about?"

"You remember the _Road to El Dorado_?"

"Yes."

"It's just like that. Only completely different."

"...wat."

"N-never mind. Just read on."

**Bloody disclaimer-owners.**

* * *

I'll Be Home for the Holidays

"_Don't worry about the world coming to an end today. It is already tomorrow in Australia."~ Charles Schulz_

"_Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art…it has no survival value; rather it is one of those things that give value to survival." ~ C.S. Lewis_

_**Prologue: The Machinations of the Mind of Lawrence Mundy Sr.**_

The grandfather clock struck noon. The gentle 'bong-bong-bong' rang through the modest red house on the left of Adelaide Street, Australia, and then faded into silence once more.

Everything was calm. Everything was quiet. Until….

_Happy Holiday/Happy Holiday/While the merry bells keep ringing/May your every wish come true…_

"DOTTY! WHO TURNED ON THAT NONSENSE?!"

"It's not nonsense, Lawrence, it's Bing Crosby."

"Hm. I hate Bing Crosby. He's too—"

"Cheery?"

The tune became more upbeat, a chorus of girls joining Bing Crosby's smooth tone. Lawrence Mundy Sr. stomped around the corner, leaning heavily on his walking stick as he did so. He muttered something under his breath as he flicked the radio off.

"Dear," Dorothy Mundy poked her head around the corner with a frown, "I was listening to that."

"Dotty, if I hear one more holly-jolly Christmas song I _will_ go on a murderous rampage."

She clucked her tongue in disapproval. "You say that every year. I like listening to music while I clean."

Lawrence collapsed down into his easy chair, rubbing at his stiff leg. "Why are you cleaning anyway? It's just the children coming over. They don't care if the house is clean."

"No," Dotty's voice replied from the kitchen, "but Lizzie is bringing Jack over and oooh, well, Junior called this morning and he's bringing a friend!"

"…eh?"

"A friend! Junior is bringing a friend to stay for Christmas!"

Lawrence Sr. settled back in his chair, thinking. "What sort of friend?"

"What do you mean by that, dear?"

"A _female_ friend?"

"Well…" Dotty fell silent for a moment, "he didn't rightly say. He was in a bit of a rush to catch his plane, I think. Oooh, I certainly hope so, though!" Her tone perked right up. "It'd be nice for Lizzie to have some company—"

"And it'd be nice to know our son isn't a proper wanker."

"Lawrence, what did I say about using such language? Besides, I'm fairly certain our son isn't gay."

"There's something funny about that boy," Lawrence Sr. growled as he pulled his pipe out of his vest pocket, "he's hidin' something from us, Dotty. Read between the lines in his letters. There's somethin' he doesn't want us knowing."

"Silly old fool," Dotty chided.

Lawrence Sr. began to shove tobacco into his pipe as he replied: "He's forty-two years old, a successful doctor—_or so he claims_—and he still hasn't found a sheila to settle down with. The evidence is right there, Dotty!"

The agitated sound of pots and pans being dumped unceremoniously into the sink was Dotty's answer. She had started humming, the signal that the conversation was over as far as she was concerned.

Lawrence puffed at his pipe furiously, drumming his fingers against his leg.

Maybe…maybe he was being too hard on the boy. Maybe he was just overreacting. Innocent until proven guilty, so the saying went. He and Junior had never seen eye-to-eye…and he wasn't getting any younger…maybe it was time to set aside his differences with his son and enjoy what time he had left, instead of bickering uselessly. Junior was a smart, capable lad. Maybe they just needed a good heart-to-heart…

The wild screech of tires made Lawrence Sr. jump, scrambling up out of his chair with a swiftness that didn't match his age. The screech was followed by a car door slamming shut and the wild, inarticulate shouts of two men.

Lawrence Sr. peeked out the window, eyes narrowing at the sight of an all-too-familiar camper van parked haphazardly in the driveway. He knew that damn van all too well. And he knew the tall, gangly man stalking around the front of the van and waving his arms wildly at a second, smaller…_man_.

Maybe he was right after all. Maybe his son was exactly what he thought he was, this whole damn time.

A bloody.

Buggering.

_Pooftah_.

* * *

"CHAOS YOU BETTER NOT BE GETTING YOUR SLASH IN MY TF2-"

"Relax, relax, it's marked Friendship for a reason."

Up next: In which Chaos pulls a "How We Got Here" and takes everyone back in time~


	2. Iatrophobia

_****_In the words of Ron Burgandy: "Boy. That escalated quickly. I mean that_ really_ gotta hand fast."

Hi everybody! I figured you'd like to see a proper AN this time around, and I want to thank you all again for the reviews/follows/favs. It seems as though everyone just came outta the woodwork at once for this! You lot are seriously the best. :)

Now, I just want you to know that you'll have to be patient with me for these first couple of chapters, because I can't just have Spy up and joining Snipes on a journey of dark character development-I mean wacky hijinks-without a reason first. The first handle of chapters will focus on said reason, and then we get to character develo-I mean hijinks.

HFH (Home for the Holidays) takes place six months after EMAT. This chapter is just going really far back in time for a reason.

Thanks again, everyone! And to Bel the Wonderful Beta, too. :)

* * *

_**Chapter One: Iatrophobia **_

_New Mexico, 1967_

"Boy, will you just calm down already? The incident is over and done with."

"IT WAS HIS FUCKING BIIIIRD. IN MY CHEEEEST. IT COULDA, LIKE, PECKED MY HEART OUT OR SOMETHIN'—"

"Th' Texan is right, laddie, ye can't let a little bird get the best o' ye—"

"Then I wanna see you have a fucking bird sealed up inside your chest, Cyclops! IT WAS HORRIBLE. IT WAS INSIDE ME."

"MAGGOT! You are getting on my last nerves!"

"WHAT IF I GET SOME KINDA DEADLY DISEASE FROM IT?! BIRDS ARE DIRTY AS SHIT! THEY GOT ALL KINDS-A SICKNESS!"

_Idiots._

He was surrounded by _idiots_.

The Spy huffed and sank lower into his uncomfortable folding chair. When he took this job a week ago he'd been promised a staggering salary, endless chances to use his impressive skills, and comfortable housing.

What the cold woman who had recruited him had neglected to mention was the fact that he would be sharing this comfortable housing with eight other men of varying degrees of potential mental illness.

_Ding!_

The 'Next' sign lit up, and the 'Now Serving' flicked to 3. The tall, uncouth Aussie staggered out of operating room, clutching his chest. "Ya weren't kiddin' son," he panted as he collapsed down into a waiting chair, "it really does hurt." He winced and rubbed at his throbbing chest.

"Next!" the German barked from his domain. He'd been in a foul mood since the Archimedes incident.

Soldier saluted the rag-tag lot and marched into the operating room with a bellow of "MAKE IT QUICK, DOC!"

"Ja, ja," Medic grumbled as the doors swung shut once more.

The Aussie, Sniper, leaned forward and groaned, rubbing at his chest. "Jesus H. Christ, when does the heartburn stop?"

"See?" The boy, Scout, settled back with an air of triumph. "I told ya so."

"_Shut up, Scout_!"

It was a joint shout from everyone, and the boy cringed back into his seat. "Sor-rey," he muttered, sinking lower into his chair.

"Y'all gonna be okay, Sniper?" Engineer inquired as he picked up his guitar once more.

Although the Aussie blinked in surprise, Spy wasn't too startled at the question. Of all his teammates, the Texan was the one who came closest to a sense of 'normal'—albeit a rather loose sense of normal. Sniper winced again and nodded. "I'll be fine. Thanks fer asking, mate."

For the most part Spy was very good at filtering words from his brain to his mouth. Unfortunately, this filter was prone to malfunction too. "I suppose you're used to heartburn, non? All that coffee you drink on an unhealthy basis."

Sniper looked up sharply, scowling at the smirking Frenchman. "Piss off."

"Don't you two start again," Engineer scowled. "The last thing this team needs is the two of y'all fightin' all the time!"

"Tex is right," Demoman, the Scot, jerked his thumb towards the Texan, "will ye two jus' let the penny incident go?"

"Not 'til he apologizes!" Sniper pointed an accusing finger at Spy, who just waved a dismissive hand through the air. "He started it!"

"But you did not let it go, bushman," Spy sneered.

The only thing that spared Spy from an Aussie going for his throat was Pyro, who opened the doors to the waiting room and waddled in with a fashion magazine tucked under one arm. Instantly the rest of the mercenaries took to staring at different corners of the room.

"Hrpho!" Pyro exclaimed cheerfully as it settled itself down in the chair next to Engineer.

The Texan was visibly nervous, but he cleared his throat and managed a faint "Hey Pyro, how are you?" nevertheless.

Scout poked Engineer's shoulder. "Dude, like, I don't think he can hear ya. I think he's, like, just a freakin' suit…" he trailed off nervously as Pyro leaned around Engineer to look at the boy, two blank eye sockets fixed squarely on his eyes. "Uh…heh…hey Pyro…"

After a tense moment Pyro lifted its gloved hand and waggled its fingers at Scout before refocusing on its magazine.

Scout's eyes bugged out of his head and he began to gesticulate silently to Engineer, to the effect of "This guy is insane, how can you be sitting next to him right now?!". Behind the goggles Engineer's eyes performed a dramatic roll. He pressed the palm of his hand into Scout's face and shoved the boy away.

Sniper took another deep breath, stood, and stretched. "Gonna go get some fresh air."

"Does it," Demoman gestured to his faintly glowing chest, "really hurt tha' much?"

"Oh yeah," Sniper tipped his hat and smirked a bit, "g'day, mates."

"G'day, bushman," Spy muttered. His gaze was the opposite wall, but nevertheless he could feel Sniper's glare as the Aussie stalked out of the waiting room.

Pyro glanced up from its magazine to study Spy. "Yhm mmm, pftro hmmm rfto."

"What?" Spy's eyes flickered to the masked abomination for an instant.

Engineer cleared his throat. "Pyro said: y'know, y'all could try gettin' along with each other."

Demoman and Scout turned to Engineer, stunned. "How can ya tell?"

"Oh, it's simple, really…" Engineer launched into a long and technical spiel on decoding Pyro's speech, and while Pyro nodded along Spy took to making his way through a pack of cigarettes, soon accumulating an impressive little pile of ash on the floor.

**….**

He was _not_ afraid of doctors.

He simply didn't _like_ them.

Having run out of cigarettes forty-five minutes ago—this he knew for certain because he'd been looking at the clock every few minutes—Spy had taken to biting his nails, chewing the inside of his cheek, grinding his teeth and bouncing his leg up and down rapidly.

He was _definitely_ not afraid of doctors.

Not that there would have been anything wrong with being afraid of doctors, Spy's mind was quick to assure him. Plenty of people were afraid of doctors, and for good reason. The too-sterile habit, all those weird, sharp instruments, the damn lab coats…

Spy's stomach gave a nasty little jolt and bile rushed into his throat. He forced it back down again through sheer force of will.

He had a great distaste for doctors. That certainly wasn't the same thing as fear, though.

His chest was already aching from the idea of being cut wide open.

"You okay, Slim?"

Engineer's soft question jolted the Frenchman out of his reverie. He scowled at the Texan. "Ça va. What makes you ask?"

"Nothin'. I just been sittin' here, watching y'all twitch and fidget like a dog with an itch he can't scratch. Something the matter?"

Anyone else would have been mildly touched by the concern of a near-stranger, but for some reason Spy found the question invasive. He snorted. "I am _fine_."

"All right." Engineer looked down, plucking at his guitar lazily. "If you say so." His goggles hid his eyes as they continued to keep an eye on the jittery Spy, who had begun to clasp and unclasp his hands in a nervous fashion.

They were the only ones left in the waiting room, and Medic seemed to be taking his own sweet time with Pyro's operation.

The silence, broken only by the faint ticking of the clock on the wall, was deafening to the sociable Engineer. He racked his brain, trying to find something to say to his distant and distracted teammate. But there was nothing. Spy was an utter enigma, even more so than Pyro. At least Pyro made an attempt to be friendly. With the Frenchman there were no such vestiges of amicability…

_Ding!_

Pyro walked out of the operating room, whistling a merry tune under the mask and patting its suit happily.

"Hey Pyro!" Engineer set his guitar aside and stood. "How did it go?"

Pyro gave Engineer a double thumbs up and a squeak, indicating all was well.

"NEXT!"

Medic's exhausted bark sent Engineer scurrying into the room, removing his hardhat and goggles with a call of: "Good to go, doc!"

For a moment Pyro and Spy were left staring at each other. Spy scowled as he picked at his cuticles. "What do you want?"

Pyro shrugged, grabbed the discarded magazine once more, and waddled out. Spy glared at the creature's retreating back. He refused to acknowledge the Pyro as human. The Pyro was just a…something. A human didn't take such glee in burning people alive, a human didn't take that much sadistic pleasure in…in what Pyro did…

Spy's arms wrapped themselves around his stomach as a wave of sickness hit him. A doctor he could have faced with bravery, maybe.

But a German doctor who enjoyed his time out on the battlefield, wrecking chaos and mayhem on unsuspecting victims?

No. No, that was an entirely different case altogether.

Medic was absolutely terrifying. When they had first met, he seemed reasonable enough—calm, intelligent, not one to suffer fools lightly. The minute the fight against BLU had started, however, a maniac side to Medic had revealed, much to the horror of everyone. The man seemed to have a fondness for giant needles, and a trembling enthusiasm for plunging said needles into exposed flesh. There was a part of Medic that reminded Spy just a little too much of _them_.

He couldn't go in there. He couldn't go in there and just let that man start poking around inside him…

He could run. He could say 'no, thank you, I'm just not up to it today'. He could make himself sick if he had to. Spy took all of these options into serious consideration as he picked furiously at his cuticles.

Somehow time slowed, and then sped up again rapidly. He could hear Engineer's voice once more as the Texan pushed open the door: "You sure hot grits are all right? We don't need no fancy diet?"

"Nein, Herr Engineer," Medic assured him as he escorted him to the door, "hot grits are perfectly acceptable."

Engineer beamed and tipped his hardhat in Medic's direction. "Thanks, doc! Good luck, Slim." The last was added to Spy as the Texan exited.

"And zen," Medic half-smiled at his remaining patient, "zere vas one. Come along, Herr Spy."

All of Spy's limbs felt numb and useless as he wretched himself out of his cold, uncomfortable folding chair and staggered towards Medic. Somehow his heart had wound up in his throat, and it was lodged there so tightly that it was becoming difficult to breathe. He dragged himself after Medic, who couldn't help but notice his patient's lack of enthusiasm.

"Nozing to vorry about, I assure you," he snapped on a pair of clean gloves as he spoke, "zis is not much more zan a routine operation."

"Yes…but…" Spy couldn't control the whine in his voice, and if he were feeling better he would have been mortified, "do you 'ave to do it? I doubt I'll ever be on the receiving end of an Übercharge."

"I do not like taking chances." Medic replied calmly. He gestured to the operating table. "Und ze sooner ve get zis over vith, ze sooner you can go, ja?"

"Oui," Spy grumbled. He jerked off his tie and unbuttoned his jacket, pausing at the white shirt underneath. "Turn around for a moment," he ordered.

Medic couldn't contain his smirk. "Was ist das? A modest Frenchman?" Nonetheless he obeyed the jumpy Frenchman, spinning around and clasping his hands behind his back. He studied the x-rays he'd taken of Heavy earlier as Spy slipped off his jacket, pulled off his undershirt, and then placed his jacket on once more.

"Ready." Spy cleared his throat, clinging to his crumpled-up shirt.

"Ah, a very modest Frenchman." There was mockery in Medic's tone, but beneath it a faint assurance. "Come along now, Herr Modesty."

Spy rubbed his arms as he slowly walked towards the operating table. Even with the protection of his jacket he still felt woefully exposed, and the churning sensation in his stomach was now working overtime in order to pay the bills.

No, he had to do this.

He was _not_ afraid of doctors.

Spy took a deep, steadying breath and climbed up onto the chilled operating table, settling back and watching Medic bustle about with eyes like a hawk. He only just held back a flinch when Medic switched on the Medigun suspended overhead, the streams of odd red light focused on Spy's chest and stomach.

"I take it this will keep me from dying," he muttered.

"Quite right," Medic produced a long slender knife from seemingly nowhere and Spy stiffened. "Now, if you could just stay still, ve do not vant zis slipping…" He tilted his head to the side, studied Spy's hairy chest, and put the slightest bit of pressure on his exposed flesh.

Medic made the mistake of blinking.

Somewhere in the second or so it took for his eyes to close and reopen, Spy had lunged himself across the room, collapsed to his knees, and vomited into a bucket. Medic wrinkled his noses at the hacking and wheezing coming from the depths of the buckets before folding his arms over his chest. "Zat," he grumbled, "is not vat I vould consider staying _still_."

After another minute of retching, Spy sat back on his heels, shakily wiping his mouth with his jacket sleeve. "My apologizes, docteur," he muttered, "this is…quite unlike me."

"Yes, vell, you vere not ze first to throw up, do not worry."

Spy glanced over his shoulder. Medic was leaning up against the operating table, playing idly with the knife. He seemed to feel the Frenchman's gaze, for he glanced up with another half-smile. "Ze Scout almost wet his pants," he kept his tone light as he went back to fiddling with this knife, "und ze Sniper nearly broke down in tears. Soldier und Demoman threw up as well. Zere is no shame in being afraid, I assure you."

His tone was calm and gentle, his gaze understanding. Had Spy not known better, he might have mistaken this man for a kindly, aging pediatrician. There was no shame in being afraid, he had said. And the others had been just as scared as he was.

Medic was different. Medic wasn't like them at all.

He could do this.

Slowly, carefully, Spy made his way back to the operating table. He hoisted himself up onto the cold surface just as Medic produced a pack of cigarettes from his vest pocket. "Good patients," he dangled the cigarette pack from his forefinger and thumb, watching Spy's eyes light up, "get rewards."

The cigarette pack landed in Spy's lap. He had already begun to light one up when Medic came back around with the knife.

"So," Medic began cheerfully, "did you catch Manchester United game zis weekend?"

Spy glared at him, affronted. "And why would I be watching _them_ play? I am a proud Frenchman, not some bandwagon—" He began a long and lengthy rant on Englishmen and football, not even noticing that Medic had already made the first incision.

* * *

I know, I know. There's a significant lack of Christmas, Australia, and Sniper thus far.

You'll see.

Up next: "They said it wasn't the impact that killed you, it was the fall. Well, whoever the hell _they_ were, they forgot to mention that if you managed to survive the fall, the impact was going to hurt like hell. "


	3. We Need A Little Christmas

Ah, living on the East Coast. The Atlantic Ocean, clam chowdah, the occasional insane hurricane. So don't fret if you don't hear from me for a few days, lads, I've probably just lost power. Happy Halloween, and to my fellow East Coasters stay safe!

**Blah blah disclai-mah.**_**  
**_

* * *

_**Chapter Two: We Need a Little Christmas**_

_December,_ _1968_

_KA-BLAM!_

"NOTHING ABOUT YA HEAD BUT A FINE RED MIST, YA BLOODY WANKAH!"

_BOOM!_

"THIS IS TOO EASY!"

On the landing Spy paused, taking the moment to roll his eyes. Lawrence was an unstoppable machine when pissed off, yes….

…but he was also incredibly _loud_.

And when he was _loud_, the stupid oaf was easy to _detect_.

_Idiot_.

Another gunshot followed by a "BLOODY FRUIT SHOP OWNERS!" shook Spy out of his 'I hate Lawrence' mental rant. He tightened his grip on his butterfly knife and continued up into the battlements.

Logically, he should have been wreaking havoc on the BLU Engineer's toys at the moment, or maybe tracking down the enemy Sniper's nest. And he would have been, if he hadn't caught the tell-tale smoke wisps of an activated cloaking device slipping into the RED base.

Louis was on the hunt.

"PIECE—A—PISS!"

And Philippe knew which idiot dingo his rival intended to bag.

He slipped into the corridor, creeping down towards the room Lawrence had holed himself up in. His shoes creaked against the ancient wood and suddenly Philippe was grateful that Lawrence's bellicose screams were covering his movements. But if his movements were being muffled, so were Louis'….

The air around the entrance to Lawrence's nest shimmered a bit.

Hesitation was a wonderful way to get killed. So, naturally, Philippe didn't hesitate. He whipped out his revolver and fired, grinning at the sound of a grunt and the sight of blood spurting from seemingly nowhere. He stalked forward. "Come on out, Louis. You lost this round."

"Va te faire voir!" Louis' voice spat from somewhere nearby. Philippe grinned and followed the sound down the corridor, eyes watching for a flickering cloaking device.

Louis decloaked a few feet away with a hand pressed to his bleeding stomach. His other hand, however, had a very steady grip on his revolver.

Philippe smirked as he continued forward. "You're out."

"You don't know that—"

"OI!"

Both Spies stopped and sighed as Sniper poked his head out of his nest. "Wot's goin' on out here?"

"Nothing, Lawrence," Philippe sighed while Louis just rolled his eyes, "just saving your life. _Again_."

Sniper's eyes flickered from one irritated Frenchman to the other. "So why don't ya just shoot him already?"

"It's called 'savoring your victory', bushman." Louis sneered. "Perhaps you would understand it better if you actually got your hands dirty every once in a while instead of 'oling up in your smelly old nest, hm?"

"'is 'ands are _filthy_. Just not with actual work," Philippe pointed out.

Sniper half-frowned. "Yer supposed to be on my side!"

"And it would be a lot more satisfying to be on _yer side _if I didn't have to watch your back all the time!"

Louis chuckled. "All of time? Good God, bushman, can't you look out for yourself?"

"I got two full jars-a Jarate in here," Sniper scowled, "and I ain't afraid to use 'em—"

The whistle of a rocket interrupted their argument, followed shortly by a scream of : "MAGGOTS!"

They said it wasn't the impact that killed you, it was the fall.

Well, whoever the hell _they_ were, they forgot to mention that if you managed to survive the fall, the impact was going to hurt like hell.

The world had suddenly become a nauseating mess of white, red, and brown, his body flew through the air at a sudden and terrifying velocity, and then the hard ground was there to catch him. Several loud cracks and pops rang through Philippe's ears and he didn't even bother trying to stifle his scream. He pressed his face into the dirt, never so happy to feel solid ground in his entire life. It didn't even matter that he had ruined another suit.

A soft groan roused him out of the dirt. Spy looked up, eyes watering at the effort it took just to accomplish that.

He was lying amidst splintered wood and shattered glass, the rubble remains of Sniper's nest. Of Louis, there was no sign. And Lawrence…

Sniper lay just a few feet away, groaning and clutching at his eyes. He moaned and tried to shift a little, but apparently his body couldn't even manage that. A fine shudder ran the length of the Aussie's frame.

Spy sat up a little, gasping at the searing pain in his left arm. "Gah…"

"Spook?"

"Present."

"Ah…ah…is—is it supposed to be dark?"

"Erm, no. It's midday."

"Oh…ah…I—I was afraid ya'd say that."

Instantly Spy knew what Sniper was trying to say. His stomach did a flip-flop in panic. "Respawn will fix it."

"Ya—ya sure?" There was a rising fear in Sniper's voice. He hadn't moved his hands from his eyes.

"Of course. I'll kill you myself if you like."

Sniper swallowed hard. "That would be… appreciated."

Spy had meant it has a harmless quip, but the serious tone in Sniper's voice gave him pause.

His revolver lay some feet away, and it took more than a fair share of effort on Spy's part to drag himself over to his weapon, his left arm and both legs protesting the action all the way. Splinters dug into his limp left arm and Spy hissed, pausing as the pain became overwhelming. It took Sniper's ragged, uneven breathing to spur him into action once more.

His aim was off, and the bullet he fired off hit Sniper in the throat rather than the headshot he'd been going for. Nevertheless Sniper bled out quickly, and before long his trembling body was still.

Spy opened the chamber to his revolver and scowled. He'd used his last bullet on a mercy kill. Muttering under his breath, he snapped the chamber shut again and pressed a finger to his ear. When he spoke his tone was understandably snappish: "Medic! If you're not busy overhealing 'eavy and Soldier, your assistance would be _very _much appreciated!"

While he waited for Medic to appear, Spy took to assessing the damage done. Both legs completely useless, an odd sensation of heat spreading across the back of his head, and when he attempted to move his left arm a stinging pain stopped him. Spy inspected the shredded cloth of his jacket with a scowl, jerking out one of the larger pieces of wood sticking out of his flesh.

Sniper had disappeared into Respawn. _Lucky bastard_.

A faint red blur quickly approaching caught his attention, along with the call of: "Yo, spook! Ya okay?"

"Do I look like I am _okay_, petit?"

Scout skittered to a stop, medikit in hands. "Ah…no. No, not really. The doc'll be here in a minute, though. I brought ya this!" He held up the kit with a triumphant expression.

"Hm. A lot of good that will do for several broken limbs."

"C'mon, Spy, just drop the asshole façade for a mo'!" Scout lowered the kit, expression twisting into a scowl. "M'tryin' to help!" He looked around vaguely. "Where's Snipes?"

"Respawn," Spy hissed as he tested out his limp and dead limbs. "Petit! Don't you dare _baby _me!" He glared daggers at the boy as he plopped down, snapping open the medikit.

"Hahah, _baby_, real funny." Scout took out a pad and immediately began applying pressure to the open wound Spy hadn't realized he had. "It's gonna get old sometime."

"I'm afraid not," Spy replied wanly. He arched an eyebrow at the Scout-turned-mini-Medic. "Shouldn't you be off doing…whatever it is you do?"

"Yeah, but running around all day gets _boring_."

_Boring?_ Spy did a double take, staring at Scout. He'd never heard the arrogant young man refer to his job as boring before. "Are you feeling all right?"

"Yeah, m'fine." Scout half-shrugged as he scrounged around for the medical tape. "I just…I dunno, doesn't spyin' evah get boring?"

Spy contemplated this, tongue pressed to his cheek. Well…the past few weeks it had felt as though the challenge had gone out of this war. It didn't even feel like a war, really. More like a vicious game of tug-of-war. He was just going through the motions now, and even that—he scowled at the debris around him—he wasn't doing all that well. "Not boring," he finally answered, "rather…repetitive."

"Yeah, repetitive, that's what I meant—hey doc!" Scout perked up as a limping Medic made his way over. "Look! I fixed Spy!" With the air of a proud toddler who just found his way into the cookie jar, Scout pointed to Spy's patched-up leg.

Medic arched his eyebrows as he flicked on his Medigun. "Wunderbar, Häschens."

Although Medic's tone has been dry as dust, Scout beamed. "Hear that?" he asked Spy in a shrill whisper. "_Wunderbar_."

Spy and Medic rolled their eyes at the same time before Medic got to work.

**….**

"STALEMATE!"

"YOU USELESS BUNCH OF NINNIES!"

It was hard for the REDs to determine which grating voice was worse—the Administrator's booming voice that practically dripped disappointment, or Soldier, who was louder, closer, and had smelly breath.

"OUR PERFORMANCE WAS PATHETIC!"

In the end they chose Soldier.

"YOU CALL YOURSELVES WARRIORS?!"

"I call myself Spy," Spy muttered under his breath, prompting muffled chuckles from Scout and Sniper.

"I HEARD THAT!" Soldier sprayed the REDs with spittle as he screamed, rounding on the impassive Spy. "And what did you do today, surrender monkey?!"

"I was blown to smithereens," Spy dusted his suit off as he spoke, "and then I shot Lawrence." He gestured to Sniper, who shrugged in faint agreement.

"FRIENDLY FIRE! HOW DO I KNOW YOU'RE NOT THE ENEMY SPY?!"

"Because if I were the enemy Spy I would 'ave killed everyone in 'ere ten minutes ago, rather than listen to you ramble on and on about 'ow pathetic we are." Exhausted, Spy collapsed down on a bench, reaching for his cigarette case. Sniper nudged him and made a 'stab-stab-stab' motion towards Soldier, who had begun his rant anew in poor Engineer's direction.

Placated, Spy offered his cigarettes to Sniper, who took one with a murmur of: "Thanks, mate." He gestured to his perfectly healthy eyes as well.

Spy nodded and looked back to the spectacle, for mild-mannered Engineer had finally lost his temper and had entered into a screaming match with Soldier. "My money is on the laborer."

"Yer on."

They settled back to enjoy the show, but as Spy lifted his cigarette to his lips he froze, a small, sharp pain radiating through his left arm.

**….**

"Pathetic."

Helen's lips curled back into a sneer as she replayed the surveillance from the day's battle. "Absolutely pathetic. Tell me, Pauling, since when is the Scout on support?" She paused the video with a scowl, glowering at the image of the RED Scout patching up Spy's leg.

Pauling shrugged. "I think he was just helping out a friend…" her voice trailed off as Helen spun in her chair to glare at her. "Which is totally and completely reprehensible, ma'am. We do not condone friendship."

"That's right." Helen swung around again, frowning. "And what's this? RED and BLU actually stopping to speak with one another? _Ugh_. Their performance is slipping. They're getting lazy—"

"They might just be tired."

Pauling gave her boss a forced smile as Helen spun to face her once more.

Helen made a bridge with her fingers. "Elaborate."

Pauling started, not expecting this response. She thought for a moment before replying, "They've been fighting nonstop for a year and a half now, without any reprieves—"

"They have weekend ceasefires."

"If I may be so bold, ma'am—"

"No. You may not."

"Oh…" Pauling took a deep breath, and her next words were spoken rapidly, "I was just thinking, you know, since Christmas is in two weeks and none of the mercenaries have been home to see their families in a long time and a nice break might just be what they need and Christmastime is the sort of time for…for families," she finished weakly.

Helen's eyebrows had flown upwards into her hairline. "I'm not paying these idiots to go visit their…_families_." The last word was spoken with a slight sneer. She was just about to face the monitor again when she heard the faint mutter of: "You're not paying them to create stalemates either."

"What was that, Miss Pauling?"

"Oh, nothing." Pauling took to staring at a corner of the dark room, "It's just that neither team has had a decisive victory for a week and a half now. You might as well be paying them to be on vacation. Of course, if they were on vacation, you wouldn't have to pay them. It's a win-win for everyone, really, and you could go on vacation to, oh, I don't know, Tijuana, and my sister just had her second baby so it'd be nice to see her—"

Helen held up a finger, cutting Pauling off abruptly. "I take it debate class was never your forte. Nevertheless," here Pauling held her breath, "I will take your advice into consideration. Because of money, not that family _thing_ you were expounding on," Helen waved a hand through the air as a squeak of joy escaped Pauling.

Helen faced the monitor once more, eyes on the image of the RED Spy shooting his teammate in the throat. "It seems we all could use a little Christmas around here."

* * *

Contrivance makes my fics go 'round, fics go 'round, fics go 'round! Contrivance makes my fics go 'round, oh-dee-do-dah-day!

Nevertheless I hope you enjoy my awesome contrivance, and rest assured that nothing that happened in this chapter will come up again in a big way. Nothing. _Whatsoever_. Don't even bother. I mean it now.

Up next: "Medic's countenance was deathly pale, his eyes wide in shock and horror. "You," he choked as he released Spy's arm, backing away, "you—you vere not supposed to go looking for more trouble, Herr Vidal."'

_Uh-oh._


	4. Sinestra

A while back over on Tumblr I made a public declaration that I would eat a dozen donuts if HFH got as much love as EMAT-gsppcrocks10 can back me up on this. And, well...it's a good thing I like donuts.

Bel claims that I tore her heart out with this chapter. We'll see if that's true for the rest of you. B)

**Hmm, have a gander at this little disclaimer.**

* * *

_**Chapter Three: Sinestra**_

It is often the littlest prick that is the most annoying.

"No fair! How come Pyro gets to leave earlier than the rest of us?!"

"Because the Administrator likes Pyro the best."

"…really?"

"No! Dammit boy, Pyro probably made some sorta special arrangement or somethin'."

Holed up in the tiny upstairs bathroom, Spy rolled his eyes dramatically. He could hear every word of Scout's heated complaints clearly even with the door closed. He was seated on the edge of the sink, teeth clamped down on a wet rag.

There was a foreign pain in his arm, slight and aching but constantly present, and it had taken a full two days for Spy to figure out what it was.

A small splinter had been sealed inside his arm when Medic had healed him, and now that he was aware of it, it hurt like hell. And of course the splinter was buried inside his left arm…

Spy clenched down tightly on the wet rag as he felt around his arm. He could feel it, the slight bump buried in the back of his fleshy upper arm, there but just out of reach. Behind the rag he moaned in frustration.

He couldn't reach it. But he had to try. The only other option was asking for help, and Spy was not the man to ask for assistance unless, well, he had three broken limbs. Besides, this was his left arm. If it had been his right, he might have gone to Medic. But not his left.

Never the left.

Spy glared down at the faded numbers tattooed into his forearm, faintly wishing his hot glare would be enough to melt the numbers away. But it wasn't—it never was.

Sighing, Spy bit down harder on the rag and reached for his butterfly knife. This probably wasn't the most medically sound of procedures, but it would have to do. He braced himself for the pain as the tip of the butterfly knife grazed his arm. The small cut began to bleed instantly.

Spy jerked the knife away, hissing a bit. _This is ridiculous!_

He'd probably bleed out before he could get the splinter out. He needed help, but he couldn't just walk around, flashing his tattoo as he pleased—his stomach began to churn wildly at the thought. The only one who knew about his tattoo was Sniper, and he sure as hell wasn't about to go groveling to the bushman for aid.

But he couldn't do this alone, a small voice in his head nagged.

Spy sat on the sink, trying to form the words "I need your help". But his mind recoiled away from the notion, his tongue lay thick and heavy in his mouth. Four very simple words, words even the youngest child could have formed together if they tried: "I need your help." He couldn't do it.

Maybe if he cut it down a bit…no, "I need help" just sounded worse somehow. Like he was begging, not asking. And he certainly would not be reduced to begging.

"I require assistance."

Better. More aloof, making it sound as though the matter was far more trivial, like he wouldn't care if Sniper couldn't help him. "I require assistance" was something he could easily say.

A loud pounding on the door made him jump, nearly falling off the edge of the sink.

"FRENCHIE!" Demoman thundered from the hall, "Open th' damn door! I gotta get in there!"

Spy slipped his jacket back on and shoved his closed knife back into his pocket. "Oui, I 'ear you!" he shouted as the rough pounding began anew. Clutching a hand to his freely-bleeding arm, he wrenched the door open and shoved past Demoman, who greeted the toilet with most of his breakfast.

Scout was hovering by the top of the stairs nervously. "Demo okay?"

"If by 'okay' you mean 'acting like normal', then yes," Spy muttered as he slipped down the stairs. Scout's eyes darted between the bathroom and Spy before widening in shock. "Spook! Ya bleedin'!"

"Oh really? What color is the sky, petit? Do tell." The response was spat with utter venom, thrown over Spy's shoulder as he stalked away.

Scout scowled, head tipped to the side as he watched Spy's retreat. After a moment of careful consideration he slipped back down the stairs, hurrying towards the infirmary.

**….**

"No, Dad. Dad, look, jus' 'cause I ain't bringing a gal home don't mean I've given up! M'just lookin' fer the roight one—Dad, Dad, Dad! Will ya just lemme finish?!"

Spy stopped short. Sniper was leaning against the worn public phone, shouting into the receiver as an older, more curmudgeonly voice scolded him loudly. The Aussie had his free hand balled into a fist, lips curled back into a snarl as his father's voice continued to yell at him. After a few minutes of this, however, the anger dissipated and was replaced by what looked to be desperation.

Spy's grip on his bleeding arm tightened considerably.

"Dad—Dad, please," Sniper's tone became pleading, "put Mum on the phone! I want ta talk ta Mum! DAD! I—just—lemme—DAD!" With a roar of frustration he slammed the phone back on the hook, hanging up on his father. Sniper stared at the phone for a long minute with shoulders slumped before slinking away.

A twinge of pity and irritation—but mostly irritation—struck Spy. There was no talking to Sniper after an argument with his father. The bushman would probably seal himself up in his van like a sulking child. And he certainly wouldn't be in the mood to help (assist, his mind quickly corrected) Spy with any sort of problem.

"Running away, Herr Spy?"

Medic, for being a fairly tall and broad-shoulder man, had a wonderful talent for sneaking up on people when he wanted to.

Spy jumped and spun on his heel, staring guilty at the doctor. "Ah…bonjour, docteur…'ow 'as your day been?" He shifted a bit, keeping his left arm away.

Medic held out his hand expectantly. He didn't say a word, merely arched his eyebrows.

"What's the matter? Archimedes got your tongue?"

The impassive look on Medic's face told Spy he wasn't in a gaming mood. He kept his hand outstretched.

"It's nothing serious," Spy insisted despite the blood now staining most of his sleeve, "just a slight cut, a flesh wound, nothing more."

"Zen you vill not have a problem with me looking at it."

Even a blind man would have seen the way Spy stiffened, and the momentary fear flashing through his eyes. When he spoke again his voice had lowered, its usual sarcastic edge absent: "It's just a splinter."

"Tweezers vill work better zan butterfly knives, I assure you."

Fully realizing he'd been trapped in medical logic, Spy had no choice but to follow Medic to the operating room.

**….**

"Something's up with Spy today," Scout tossed one of his baseballs into the air, catching it with one hand as it came back down, "he's actin' weirder than usual."

"Weirder than usual in what sorta way?" Engineer inquired as he slipped a package of cookies out of the cupboard. He glanced over his shoulder at Scout, who had parked himself in one of the mess hall chairs.

Scout shrugged as he continued his game of one-man catch. "I guess…grouchier? I dunno, I asked Medic to talk to him. The doc can fix anything, even screwed-up sonuvabitches like Spy."

"I wouldn't put _that_ much faith in doc, but that was a good idea." Engineer scooped up a handful of cookies and took the seat opposite Scout. He passed a few cookies to the boy before stacking the rest in a neat tower. "Spah and doc are the only ones not headin' home for the holidays…."

"Oh yeah!" Scout had a cookie halfway to his mouth when he suddenly sat up. "D'you think ya could bring back some-a Irene's cookies? Ya always talking about how good they are!"

Engineer studied the generic store cookie in his hand with a slight smile. "Sure thing, son. So long as she doesn't burn 'em."

"Awesome! My ma said she was knittin' me a scarf, I'll ask her to make one for ya too!"

"C'mon, your mama doesn't need to do all that work—"

Engineer was cut off as the mess hall's double doors were unceremoniously kicked open. Sniper stalked in, hands shoved into his pockets and hat lowered over his eyes. He didn't say a word to either Scout or Engineer as he walked towards the coffee pot.

"Uh-oh," Scout muttered under his breath. Engineer shot him a scolding look and the boy took to shoving cookies into his mouth.

The Texan spun in his chair to watch Sniper, who was making coffee with as much clattering noise as possible. "I take it y'all just got off the phone with your pa?"

Sniper slammed the poor coffee pot down with excessive force. "Yes."

"It didn't go well."

Sniper understood it was a statement, not a question. "Nope."

"Dammit, Down Under!" Engineer slammed a gloved hand down the table, exasperated. "Why are ya still talkin' to that man? All he ever does is drive ya crazy, and then we're the ones that gotta put up with your sulking!"

"I don't sulk," Sniper mumbled, keeping his gaze averted nevertheless.

"Y'all are gonna have a miserable Christmas if you go home. Seems all ya do with your pa is argue!"

"S'not loike m'lookin' forward ta going home, Tex!" Sniper snapped. He turned around, arms folded across his chest. "But I gotta!"

"Why?"

"Because…because loike him or not, that man is my father! He's family! Ya don't just give up on family!"

Scout nodded in agreement while Engineer sat back and groaned. The Texan raised both hands in defeat. "Fine. It's your decision. But if you have a miserable time I do _not_ want you coming back here all pouty and unsociable, got it?"

"Yes, Mummy," Sniper muttered. He took a seat as well, and Scout passed him the last cookie out of pity.

**….**

"Sit."

"Fine."

"Do not get sulky vith me."

"I do not _sulk_."

"Oh please. You are one of ze moodiest men I haf ever met."

Spy fidgeted from his place on the operating table. He'd been here only a few times, and each time he faced the same fight against a rising panic and sickness. Now the sickness had increased tenfold. There was a hot lump stuck in his throat, pushed up there by his churning stomach.

_Medic is going to find out, Medic is going to know, nobody should know, nobody has to know… _

No, the little voice in his head was quick to correct, no, it would all right. He had trusted Medic all this time. The German was a good man. If he could trust the smelly bushman with his secret, he could certainly trust the doctor.

Medic came to stand next to him, small bowl and tweezers in hand. "Jacket off."

Heart pounding loudly in his ears, mouth dry, Spy obeyed. There was the faintest of tremors in his hands as he slowly undid each button, slipped his jacket off, and then did the same for his undershirt.

Spy stared stubbornly out the window as Medic took his left arm into his hands. It took every ounce of self-respect for him not to jerk out of the German's grasp and run away screaming.

Medic's focus was wholly on the small cut Spy had made, and after a moment of careful probing he found the offending little piece of wood. "And zere ve are!" he pulled it out a grin, admiring the blood-soaked splinter. "Quite ze little prick, weren't you?" He was just about to release Spy when he glanced down and stiffened.

Spy had resigned himself to the fact that Medic knew about his past as well. He just hoped he wouldn't ask any questions, he was certain he could trust Medic to—

Medic started counting the numbers out loud.

_The young doctor read his numbers out loud slowly, and he stepped forward, sick and weak and yet somehow still alive. _

Medic's grip on his arm was like iron.

_It was a physical examination, they'd been assured, nothing serious. But they knew the unspoken truth. Whoever didn't pass was going to die._

No, Spy's mind screamed, no, this wasn't possible, this wasn't right—

_At this point he would have happily preferred death_.

No, no, no, no—

_The young doctor gave him a faint, reassuring smile as he beckoned him over. He shoved his slipping glasses up his nose, and seemed to introduce himself to his terrified and borderline suicidal young patient._

It was Medic.

_He honestly didn't know what to make of this young doctor._

It had been Medic all along.

Horrified, refusing to accept it, Spy turned slowly to face the German. Medic's countenance was deathly pale, his eyes wide in shock and horror. "You," he choked as he released Spy's arm, backing away, "you—you vere not supposed to go looking for more trouble, Herr Vidal."

Hearing his surname—the surname he hadn't heard in years—was too much to bear.

Spy fell to the ground in a crumbled heap, grabbed his jacket, and bolted for the door.

* * *

Oh, I'm sorry, did I say "Adventure in Australia"? What I meant to say was "ANGST ANGST Australia Adventures ANGST"!1

Also, Jinny the Kisaragi has graciously volunteered her services as Chief of Staff in the "Cheer Medic Up" Fund. That's right, not Spy. Medic. By the end of this he's the one that's going to need your pity-tears. So report to her with your goodwill baskets and German beer.

Up next: 'Sniper shook his head. "Half-dressed spook upchuckin' in-fronta my van, wif a bleedin' arm, lookin' like he's seen the Devil himself. Even an idiot bushman loike me can figure out something's wrong." '

_LAWRENCE YOU HAVE NO IDEA_


	5. I'll Take A Walk

_****_*peeks around corner* What? You're all still here? Wow. You guys have a serious tolerance for my BS...

In other news, what do you do when you're stumped for a chapter title? Why, put your Ipod on shuffle, and pull some vague-enough-to-sound-meaningful lyrics from the first Alt-Rock song you land on. Simple and effective and everyone assumes you're cleverer than you actually are. :3

* * *

_**Chapter Four: I'll Take A Walk**_

He needed to get out of here.

He needed to get away.

Because Medic was one of _them_.

And he wasn't just any one of _them_.

Spy collapsed to the ground, vomiting without discretion. He pressed his hands into his eyes, heaving as he did so. His mind was reeling away from the situation, refusing to take it in, because if he did then he would have to accept the fact—

Medic, his teammate, the man he respected, even admired, was a Nazi.

The idea of Medic as a Nazi—Medic, who had poked around inside of him—made Spy's stomach heave with shock. His arms had gone numb, but feeling was coming back to them now—a cold blast on the left, a hot sensation on the right. Half of his body had been dunked in icy water, the other half plunged into fire. The pain spread rapidly. He was paralyzed, utterly and completely, as the fire and ice consumed him with the same burning pain. A strangled cry rose up in his throat but died before it could escape him. Images and voices began to flash through his him. Angry voices were screaming at him, sorrowful voices were sobbing brokenly, and the screams were growing louder and louder—

"Spook?"

The sound of an Aussie's brogue jerked Spy roughly back into reality. He opened his eyes, glancing around numbly. He hadn't paid attention to where he was going in his mad flight, and only now did he realize he was slumped up against Sniper's van.

The owner was standing over him, head cocked to the side. He had Spy's jacket in his hands and he held it out to the Frenchman when their eyes finally met. "I think this belongs to ya."

"Thank you," Spy muttered, taking the jacket and slipping it on once more. The minute his tattoo was covered, the racing of his heart seemed to ease.

Sniper continued to stand over him, twiddling his thumbs. "Wot's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Wot's _wrong_?"

Spy climbed to his feet slowly, not fully trusting his legs to do their job. He continued to lean against Sniper's van warily. "What makes you think something's wrong?"

Sniper shook his head. "Half-dressed spook upchuckin' in-fronta my van, wif a bleedin' arm, lookin' like he's seen the Devil himself. Even an idiot bushman loike me can figure out something's wrong."

A ghost of a smile was playing around the Aussie's lips, but Spy was in no mood for banter. "Leave me be, Lawrence."

Sniper blinked and looked around. "Yeh're, uh…in front-a my crappy van. You leave me be."

Spy was in the middle of redressing, and for a long minute didn't acknowledge Sniper's presence. That immediately set off alarms in Sniper's head. Spook never turned down an opportunity to mock him, and now he was serving up golden material for the Frenchman. Sniper hadn't finished high school, true, but he wasn't an idiot. Spy was in some sort of trouble, and while he knew he couldn't coax the truth out of the prickly Frenchman, that didn't mean he could just let him be either…

Sniper disappeared into his van, and Spy took the opportunity to take a long, steadying breath. Clearly he was overreacting, jumping to conclusions. Medic was most certainly not the young doctor; he was just a German…a German who...happened to know his real last name.

Spy groaned. _What I am going to do now?_  
"Beer?" Sniper's voice inquired from the van.

"What?" Spy snarled.

"Beer, y'know, ya drink it. M'offering ya one."

Spy couldn't resist the bait. "Please, bushman, my tastes are far and above that plebeian fare."

"Well excuse _moi,_ Monsieur Hotey-Totey," Sniper barked, "but I'm 'fraid this restaurant don't serve yer snooty French wine." There was a great clattering and his hand stuck back out of the van, clutching an ice cold beer bottle.

Spy half-smiled and took the bottle.

"Most people say thanks."

"Consider this payback for saving your life the other day."

"I coulda handle the BLU!"

"Hmm, yes, like you always do? Face down with a knife in your back?"

"Well that—it ain't—he's just got it out fer me!"

"Maybe he _likes_ you."

In the van Sniper sagged with relief at the mocking tone in Spy's voice, before what he was saying actually registered. He straightened. "Maybe. I _am_ a pretty handsome rogue, and all you Frenchies are just sleepin' all over the place wif anything that has two legs…"

"That is the Swedes, bushman." Spy's reply was dry as he appeared in the doorway. "The French 'ave standards, believe it or not. We sleep all over with _beautiful_ things that 'ave two legs."

Sniper laughed as he picked up his cooling mug of coffee. "S'that how ya fell in with the BLU Scoot's mum?" He beckoned for Spy to join him, and after a moment of hesitation the Frenchman complied.

He settled down at the tiny kitchenette, expression wistful at the thought of his petit chou-fleur. "Oui. She is not just beautiful, mind. She is smart, quick-witted, elegant—"

"She completes ya."

"Well, yes—"

"Meanin' that she got everything ya don't."

Spy scowled as Sniper began to laugh at his own joke. The Aussie smirked over his cup of coffee and raised it in faint salute. Spy mimicked the action with the beer bottle, finally taking a gulp of tasteless beer.

"How come yer not joinin' her fer Christmas—or, Hanukkah, I 'pose."

Spy rolled his eyes. "Lawrence, your lack of comprehension towards social norms is both endearing and utterly exasperating, do you realize that?" He continued on as Sniper frowned: "I doubt her youngest son will take too kindly to me helping put up the Christmas tree."

"Ooooh." Sniper took a sip of coffee as he thought, "So, wot are ya gonna do while we're gone? Just hang 'round wif Medic all day—"

Involuntarily Spy flinched, and the action didn't go unnoticed by Sniper. He peered at Spy from over his aviators expectantly. Spy huffed. "I 'ave no idea what I will be doing."

It was one of the truest things he'd said in a long time.

Spy cast his gaze around, looking to take the conversation off of him. It landed on Sniper's longcoat, draped across a battered suitcase. "Oh? What's this?"

"Oi! Stay outta my stuff!" Sniper lurched forward, but it was too late. Spy had already grabbed the piece of paper that had been sticking out of the coat pocket. He danced away, reading it as he did so. "France? Why are you going to France?"

"I ain't goin' ta France!" Sniper snatched the airplane ticket out of Spy's hands. "I have a layover in France. M'going to see my parents." The last was added in an almost-ashamed mutter as he slipped the ticket back into his pocket.

Spy crossed his arms over his chest. "Going to tell them all about your career as a successful…what was it? Brain surgeon? Obstetrician?"

Sniper shrugged. "All of the above, I guess."

"Hm. Well, 'ave fun in your land of technologically superior idiots. Wrestle something large with pointy teeth for me, will you?"

"All roight. I'll get ya some snooty French wine while I'm in France."

"Much appreciated. Thank you for the tasteless plebeian beer too." Spy slid past Sniper and out of the van, tossing a faint smile over his shoulder before he cloaked. Sniper watched the air shimmer faintly as Spy walked away.

He leaned up against the counter, eyes wary. "All roight, spook," he muttered under his breath, "wot did ya do now?"

**….**

Spy waited until Sniper's van was out of sight before pulling Sniper's airplane ticket out of his pocket, flipping it over and over in his hands. Pickpocketing had always been a talent of his, and it was nice to keep the reflexes sharp.

"France…" he murmured. He didn't have anything waiting for him in his homeland. But nothing was certainly better than what was waiting in the base. He ducked behind a tower of crates and plopped down on the dusty ground, studying the ticket and thinking long and hard about his next move.

His left arm still hurt like hell.

**….**

Bach was blasting from Medic's office so loudly Heavy was having trouble hearing himself think. The Russian lingered outside of the office door, careful not to make his presence known. He was leaving shortly, heading back to Siberia to see his mother and sisters, and he would like say good-bye to his best friend, but…

But Bach was essentially the German's "Do Not Disturb" sign. And a pissed-off Medic was the last sort of Medic he wanted to see.

Not for the first time, Heavy wished he was as fluent in English as the rest of his team appeared to be. It would have made communicating much easier.

Heavy took a deep breath and opened the door. "Doktor?"

Medic looked to be passed out at his desk. He was seated, head buried his arms. He didn't respond as Heavy called his name once more. Heavy squeezed through the door and strode straight over to the prone German. "Doktor? Doktor!"

Finally Medic stirred. He lifted his head up a bit, blinking owlishly and looking around as if lost. His eyes finally settled on Heavy's concerned gaze. "Vhat is it, Herr Heavy?" he asked in a faraway tone.

"I am departing soon for Siberia. Have come to say goodbye."

"Oh." Realization dawned over Medic's face and for an instant he looked crestfallen. "Vell…haf a good time. Stay warm."

Heavy continued to stare at him. "Something wrong, Doktor?"

For a brief moment Medic looked to be on the verge of telling Heavy something. He opened his mouth, but then appeared to reconsider and closed it once more. "Nein," he murmured at last, "do not vorry about me."

Heavy clapped Medic on the back with a hearty grin. "I will bring back proper Russian vodka, and then we will see who can drink who under table!"

"Ja," Medic forced himself to smile, "zat sounds good."

Heavy made to leave, but stopped in the door. When he turned to face Medic his expression was deadly serious. "Doktor…do not hesitate to call or write if something is wrong, da?"

Medic kept his strained smile and nodded. He kept smiling until Heavy had left, closing the door behind him. Inch by inch the smile faded. He picked up the framed photograph of Joelle, studying her image with a furrowed brow and a faintly wistful expression. And then he slowly put it back, electing to reach down further, to a desk drawer that he hardly ever used.

The drawer was filled with junk—odds and ends and bits of pieces, crumpled papers he thought might come in handy someday, and more than enough pens to last him. And there, resting at the very bottom of the pile, was an old journal.

It wasn't all that impressive to look at—leather-bound, yes, but somewhere along the years the pages had yellowed, and swelled with some moisture. When the front cover was opened, it complied unwillingly and with the slightest of cracks.

With a numb expression Medic stared down at his faded words, written in his mother tongue.

_December, 1942_

_I watched a man die today, and for the first time I couldn't feel anything but cold. _

_ H— laughed at me, told me it was about time I got off my high and mighty horse and joined the rest of them. M— didn't say anything. I can't help but shake the idea that he thinks he's better than me. But I digress._

_ The prisoner was executed—slowly—for stealing food. When they finally hung him, his body dangled and jerked for a long time afterwards. I couldn't help but to think of a puppet._

_ Winter has deadened everything. It's hard to feel empathy or sympathy anymore, not when they just keep coming and going and dying. It's easier and more prudent to survival to keep your head down and comply. Rebellion, however discreetly, won't get you anywhere but dead. Or worse._

_ Still…_

_ H— gave me this journal as a medical diary. I find it more soothing to put these thoughts down on paper. And these thoughts disturb me._

_ I'm beginning to fear that I am becoming like M—, and worse yet, that I am accepting my transition into a man like M—. I don't want to be like him. But how can I be anything otherwise? Apathy is easier to deal with._

_ Word is that a shipment will be arriving tomorrow. Predominantly French, from what I understand. Joelle's countrymen. _

_ Once upon a time I would have tried to wriggle out of sorting duties. But M— enjoys seeing me squirm, I think. He won't let me be anywhere but by the front gates tomorrow. If this sensation of cold lasts, I might make it through tomorrow._

_ I hope it does. _

* * *

__Is it beginning to come together now? Is it? I sure hope so.

While you're waiting for next Sunday's update (seems to be the pace me and the betas are working at), why don't you go check out a few other TF2 fics that could use a little TLC? Like, oh, I dunno, "Point of View", "Unforeseen Consquences", "Blackout", and "9 Days of Christmas"? I mean, just as a suggestion. An eensy-weensy one. :3

Up next: "This," Scout waved a hand around as he slipped into the passenger seat of the van, "is _totally _the Mundymobile."


	6. The Sincerest Form of Flattery

**__**I want to skip right to Chapter 7 because that's when we finally get to Australia and the fun begins, but Bel said I couldn't because that'd be _cheating. _I'm going to my corner to pout and eat a pint of Ben and Jerry's.

***through mouth of Phish Food* Ish-isnot-m-mine**

* * *

_**Chapter Five: The Sincerest Form of Flattery**_

"Don't go blowin' up any lake monsters, y'all got that?"

"Stop worrying, grease monkey!" Soldier snapped as he hefted his battered suitcase into the taxi. "We're only going to fight the Loch Ness Hamster if she provokes us!"

"_Monster_, Sol. Loch Ness Monster."

"Could be both." Demoman rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

"Have fun," Engineer sighed as Demoman and Soldier slid into the backseat of the taxi. He scooted around front to the driver and handed the man a wad of hundred dollar bills.

The driver counted out the money slowly, eyes widening the higher the number went. He looked back to Engineer with a stunned expression. "Look man, if you did somethin' illegal to get ya hands on dis cash..."

"If they start fighting, separate 'em." Engineer jerked a thumb towards the backseat.

The driver glanced over his shoulder at the grinning-too-widely-to-be-innocent Demoman and Soldier. "Payin' fer mah medical bills?"

"Probably." And with that, Engineer snaked his thumbs over his overalls and backed away, smiling faintly when the taxi took off. Once the vehicle had faded into the horizon, the Texan shook his head and started towards Bessie the Truck.

"Hey Engie!" Scout waved his arms wildly from by Sniper's van. "Ya headin' out?"

"Just about, boy!" Engineer waved back as he climbed into the driver's seat, swapping his goggles for a more practical pair of sunglasses. He made to start the ignition, but suddenly Scout was hovering in the window. He sighed. "What's wrong?"  
"I haven't seen Spy or the doc all day long." Scout leaned through the window, resting his chin in his hands. "Have you?"

"Nah," Engineer pushed Scout out again, "they're probably just sulkin' or somethin'."

"I know, I just thought, ya know, doc would at least say good-bye." Scout tossed a nervous look back towards the base. "Think everything is okay?"

"Everything is _fine_, Scout."

Engineer didn't even bother to hide the impatience in his voice this time around. He was glaring at Scout from behind his sunglasses, fingers drumming against the steering wheel. The only thing standing between the Texan and his vacation was this skinny young man.

Scout, realizing Engineer's patience had been spent, sighed and stepped backwards. "Merry Christmas, hardhat."

"Merry Christmas, Scoot."

Bessie roared to life and sped off into the desert, leaving Scout to hack and spit out a cloud full of dust. He rubbed the dirt out of his eyes and glared after the truck. "Everything is _not_ okay," he mumbled, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"Oi! Ya ready ta go, ankle-boiter?" Sniper barged out of the base, longcoat snapping out behind him impressively.

Scout straightened up. "Yeah! C'mon, to the Mundymobile!"

"Don't call it that."

"Why?" Scout inquired, following Sniper to the van.

"Because I said so."

"That's a stupid reason. This," Scout waved a hand around as he slipped into the passenger seat, "is _totally _the Mundymobile."

"It is the van!" Sniper growled, adjusting his aviators and checking his pocket for his ticket for the umpteenth time. He hadn't been able to find it the day before, only to have it reappear in the mess hall alongside a fresh cup of coffee. _Damn spook_.

"Can I put the seat back?"

"No."

"Can I put my feet on the dashboard?"

"No."

"Can I have a turn driving?"

"No."

"Can I have a cigarette?"

"No."

"Can we stop for lunch?"

"No."

"Can I play with the radio?"

"Will it shut ya up?"

"Yeah."

"Fine." With a heavy groan Sniper started the engine, pulling forward smoothly.

Scout grinned and fiddled with the radio until he found what he was looking for.

_Christmas, Christmas time is near/Time for toys and time for cheer…_

The van lurched to a sudden stop as Sniper slammed on the brakes. "Wot the hell are we listenin' to?"

"The Chipmunk song, dumbass!" Scout bounced in his seat excitedly. "Me and my bros used to listen to this all the time!" He began to hum along to his favorite Christmas song.

_We've been good, but we can't last/Hurry Christmas, hurry fast…_

Sniper scowled and started forward again, muttering wildly under his breath. Scout began to sing along with the Chipmunks, his voice horribly off-key.

Neither of them noticed the slight indent on the Murphy bed, or heard the faint sigh of relief as the van passed through the chain-link fence of the base.

_"ALVIN!"_

"SCOUT!"

_ "ALVIIIIIIIIIIIIIN!"_

"SCOUUUUUUUT!"

**….**

"Take good care of 'er, mates."

"No worries! She'll be in one piece when you see 'er again!"

Sniper gave the hood of his van an affectionate pat and nodded at the Australian duo he was leaving in charge of the Mundymobile. "See ya soon, Sheila."

The Australians gave him a double-thumbs up as they hopped into the front seat, driving off with his van to another section of the airport parking lot. Sniper lingered where he was for a moment worriedly.

"Jeez, Snipes," Scout rolled his eyes, "ya treat the Mundymobile better than ya treat some people." He pointed to the swelling bruise on his arm as proof.

"That's 'cause the Mundymobile can't talk." Sniper aimed another half-hearted punch at the youth, who ducked and stumbled away. "C'mon, yer gonna miss yer flight."

He turned to grab their suitcases, but paused and titled his head to the side. There were three suitcases resting on the ground instead of two. Brow furrowed, Sniper glanced back to ask Scout if the boy had brought along an extra suitcase, but the speedster had already ran off to speak to two lovely young women.

Sniper picked up the new suitcase and examined it. Unlike its companions, it looked expensive and well-cared after. After a minute Sniper smirked, shook his head, and took up the rest of the suitcases. "Come along, spook!" he called to immediate—and vacant—area.

There was silence and a significant lack of spooks.

Sniper chuckled. "T'ain't no shame in asking fer a ride, spook." He started off, and after a long moment an invisible Spy followed.

**….**

"I tell ya, man, I was this close, _thiiiiiis_ close to scorin' with one-a them dames!"

"Ya just keep tellin' yerself that." Sniper, in a brief gesture of fatherly affection, reached up and secured Scout's floppy-eared hat on his head for him. "Now git. Yer plane's boardin'."

"'kay!" Scout squirmed with excitement where he stood, his buck-tooted grin a mile long. "Ya have a good Christmas, 'kay, Snipes? Eat a dingo or somethin' for me!"

"Have fun." Sniper pushed Scout to the gate. "Stay warm. Listen ta yer mum. Don't fight any Yankees fans or nothing."

"Yes, _dad_." With a final, good-natured grin, Scout disappeared down the jetway, carry-on bag slung over his shoulder.

Sniper glanced around causally before meandering over to a large board mounted on the wall, studying the weather reports intently. He had some time to kill before his plane took off, he could—

Out of the corner of his eye he spotted a familiar, lanky figure walking towards the men's bathroom. Sniper rolled his eyes and followed Scout into the restroom, where the boy, after taking a discreet look around, took to washing his hands.

Sniper leaned up against the sink. "Gonna have ta try harder than that, spook."

Scout sneered into the mirror. When he spoke it was in a perfect imitation of Sniper: "Gonna have ta try harder than that, spook."

If his voice coming out of Scout's mouth unnerved Sniper, he didn't allow it to show. Instead he just crossed his arms over his chest, starting expectantly at not-Scout. "Ya know, if ya changed yer mind about stayin' behind, all ya had ta do was say so. No need fer all this sneakin' around."

Not-Scout half-smiled, and a moment later the illusion melted away, leaving behind a wary-looking Spy. "I should thank you for taking care of my luggage for me while I acquired a ticket." He pulled out a piece of paper and showed it to Sniper, who was dismayed to see that his suspicions had been correct—Spy had booked the exact same flight as him.

He sighed and shoved his hands into his pockets. "T'weren't no trouble. So, ya gonna keep up the ankle-boiter disguise?"

"For the time being, yes." Spy fiddled with the disguise kit in his pocket and suddenly Scout was back, giving him a buck-toothed grin.

Sniper's eyes narrowed dramatically. "Ya brought ya disguise kit and watch. Did ya bring…all yer weapons?"

"Oui."

"Bloody hell, spook!" Sniper slapped a hand to his forehead. "And here ya are accusing me-a not knowin' my social norms! Ya just can't carry yer weapons everywhere ya go! We're in an airport, not Teufort!"

"I am a consummate professional, Lawrence!" Spy snapped, brow furrowed. "I bring my weapons everywhere I go! A spy is always prepared for every situation!"

"I betcha have yer sapper too."

"Yes, actually."

Sniper threw his hands into the air, exasperated. He stormed out of the bathroom once more, and Spy followed, hands clapped behind his back. "Yo, Snipes," Spy's imitation of Scout was almost a little too perfect, "where're we goin'?"

"_I'm_ gonna check the weather reports—"

"But ya already did that!"

"Well I'm gonna check 'em again! Alone!"

He stalked back to the wall, scrutinizing the dark clouds over the Atlantic as though his life depended on. Spy came up alongside him, head tilted to the side. "Uh-oh. Looks like rain…"  
"Wot part of _alone_ are ya not gettin'?"

"I was talking to myself," Spy muttered, straightening out Scout's baseball cap on his head.

"Spook, just 'cause we're takin' the same flight don't mean we gotta stick together the whole damn time. 'Sides, I don't want any trouble if they find yer revolver on ya."

He glanced at the disguised Frenchman out of the corner of his eye, watching his reaction. "I suppose you're correct. Not that I would want to be seen the company of a half-wit Australian anyway. Adieu, Lawrence" He vanished on the spot.

"See ya on the plane, spook." With that, Sniper turned back to weather screen, frowning at the thunderclouds brewing.

**….**

"Flight 707 to Paris will be boarding in five minutes!"

The chipper announcement from the stewardess stirred Spy out of his reverie. Still disguised as Scout, he had been staring out at the runway for the past hour and a half. His hand drifted towards his chest pocket, feeling for the scrap of paper in there.

The telephone number he'd rifled through ten years' worth of junk to find belonged to his second-cousin Paulette. At least, it had ten years ago.

His plan was astonishingly, almost insultingly simple. Get to France, find Paulette and her family, and stay with them while he sorted out what to do. He'd have to quit the REDs—there was no way he'd be able to continue working with his newfound knowledge. He was almost certain the Administrator knew about their individual pasts. Crazy bitch as she was, even she would have to understand the circumstances.

_And if she doesn't?_ His mind asked.

Well…there were other, more forcible ways of getting what he wanted.

He just hoped Paulette wouldn't mind a long-lost relative showing up on her doorstep.

With a cat-like grace Spy stretched and shook his limbs back into alertness. His gaze swept around the gate, searching for his fellow RED.

Much to his unending annoyance, Lawrence had not stopped _moving_ for the past ninety minutes. The bushman had flitted from airport shop to airport shop, bought a few things, meandered his way over to the café for cheap coffee and a plastic-looking pastry, and then chatted up the old couple sitting at the table next to him. He'd gone back to the bathroom, watched a few planes take off, and then bought a handful of trashy magazines to read through.

The Aussie looked frumpy and underdressed in the midst of a bench of suit-wearing businessmen, and more than a few shot him looks of disgust at his longcoat and weather-worn hat. He didn't seem to notice.

If their plane didn't crash Spy was going to kill him.

"Flight 707 to France is now boarding! Flight 707 to Paris is now boarding!"

Spy did a few more stretches as he watched a few families carry their children down the jetway. A man walked by, cradling a very small boy in his arms, and Spy couldn't help a small smile at the sight.

Once the families had boarded, Spy slipped into the growing makeshift line behind Sniper, who scowled. "I swear ta God, spook, if ya sit next ta me—"

"Relax, bushman," for an instant Spy's accent slipped, and Sniper was treated to the odd image of a heavily-accented Scout, "I elected for first class. Something I know for a fact you did not."

"Uh…no." Sniper studied the coach ticket in his hands.

"Well, there you 'ave it. Enjoy your packets of peanuts."

"I loike peanuts."

And with that half-hearted retort, a long and heavy silence ensued.

**….**

He hated the silence.

Not having friends or family to return to hadn't bothered Medic all that much in the beginning, unless listening to Scout natter on and on about his Christmas plans counted. Heavy had extended a vacation offer to him, but Medic had politely refused. He'd successfully avoided Russia during the war. No reason to go there now. He'd planned to spend his free time catching up on sleep and paperwork and maybe watching a few of those daytime dramas Pyro seemed to like so much. Spy would have been company enough to satisfy him.

But now the Teufort base, normally resounding with arguments and crashes and gunshots, was completely still and empty. Everything was quiet save for the _tick-tick-tick_ of a clock.

With languid movements Medic picked up the crumb-littered plate Scout had left on the table and dumped it into the sink. He leaned up against the counter, not quite up to washing the plate.

He wasn't quite up to doing anything, really.

Spy had vanished without a trace, but Medic wasn't overly concerned. The Frenchman had proven himself resilient time and again. He knew that all too well.

Somehow he found himself back in his office, at his desk. He paused in the middle of the room, looking up at the sound of cooing. Archimedes and Hippolyta were nesting together in the rafters, Hippolyta with her head tucked under Archimedes' neck. Medic smiled faintly at the sight before collapsing at his desk. If all went according to plan, there'd be a new nest of chicks come spring.

Absentmindedly his hand drifted back towards his old journal.

_December 1942_

_ I must take this moment to jot down my thoughts, because they've been distracting me since this morning, and I cannot get any work done this way. _

_ The new shipment arrived right on schedule. Everything was moving at a smooth pace, until…_

_ Until _him.

_ He had two very small boys with him, odd considering that they should have been separated the minute they were off the train. In fact, I probably would not have taken note of him at all if not for the boys. And his eyes—they are like Joelle's. Not in color—her eyes are green—but in those eyes is a fiery, defiant look. _

_ I would have bet on him surviving, if not for the loss of his boys._

_ He tried to go with them when they were separated, but was beaten back. I reacted on instinct—pushing the guards away, pulling him up. He asked me if the children would be all right._

_ I pretended I didn't understand a word he was saying._

_ M— wouldn't even reconsider reversing his decision about the children when I asked…well, demanded, rather._

_ I didn't stop arguing with M— all the way to the chambers. When I demanded to know what the boys lacked that to keep them alive, he simply shrugged and said "Too small". _

_ At that moment I hated him, hated him more than I have ever hated anyone or anything. And then that hatred spread. I wanted to see that skinny Jew with Joelle's eyes dead. I wanted to see him dead. Because I wasn't supposed to be feeling sick to my stomach anymore. I wasn't supposed to feel at all. And suddenly more emotions were coursing through me than I would have ever liked to admit. It was all _his_ fault._

_ And then I came back to reality. No, I don't want to see him dead. Quite the opposite._

_ If he survives, if _I _can help him survive, perhaps… _

_I have to be discreet about it. They'll kill me if they suspect me of treason._

_ The air is fouler than usual tonight._

* * *

__...I'm going to store to buy more Ben and Jerry's. Who wants some?

Up next: "And why on earth would I ever join _you_? Australia," the name came out in a sneer, "is hardly the place for a refined gentleman such as myself. No, I do not think fighting dingoes and riding kangaroos is an especially interesting way to spend my holiday. And furthermore, if there was one man I'd rather not 'ave to put up with for fourteen days, it is the uncultured bushman who doesn't shower and collects 'is own piss!"


	7. It's Better Than Drinking Alone

_****_*whining* Goooood are we done with this I wanna go to Australia already _jeez. _And if you don't recognize the title, get out and don't come back until you acquaint yourself with the full works of Billy Joel.

Also, I forgot to credit Archimedes/Hippolyta to Lily, and somebody's fear of thunder to Tokyo Sunset.

...my ANs are chatty.

**DISCLAIMAH**

* * *

_**Chapter Six: It's Better Than Drinking Alone**_

A peal of thunder shook the plane. Or at least to Lawrence's fevered imagination it did.

The Aussie was currently several thousand feet above the air, gripping his hands together tightly and grinding his teeth as the plane jolted through turbulence once more. A band of sweat trickled down his temple and he squeezed his eyes shut, fighting a wave of sickness.

He was _not_ afraid of thunder.

He simply didn't _like_ it.

There was nothing to be ashamed of, his mind assured him. Flying over the Atlantic in the midst of a thunderstorm was reason enough to give anyone pause.

At least, anyone but Spy.

He could hear the Frenchman's snorting laugh from first class as he blatantly flirted with one of the perky young stewardesses.

Sniper hoped he was enjoying his goddamn champagne. Or was it wine they served in first class?

Another roll of thunder shook him out of his thought process. Resisting the urge to clap his hands over his ears like a child, Sniper took several deep breathes and tried to calm his racing heart.

His mind scrambled desperately for something else to think about. His family came to mind, but Sniper shoved those thoughts away almost as quickly as they came. The moment he step foot on Aussie soil was the moment he would begin to worry about his big screwed-up family.

A Frenchman's murmur caught his ear and Sniper tilted his head to the side, listening as Spy—still disguised as Scout—subtly dismissed the stewardess.

A nagging feeling was developing in his gut, telling him that Spy was in trouble with a capital T. Although he was loathed to admit it, Sniper knew his teammate better than anyone else, and his erratic un-Spy-like behavior was setting the Aussie on edge. Spy was in big Trouble. And Big Trouble for Spy meant Huge Trouble for everyone else.

Sniper took to staring out the window, forcing himself to fight his fear as lightening flashed by once more.

**….**

"Eet 'as been a pleasure talking with you, ma chère," Spy's accent had mysteriously grown thicker the more he spoke with the chatty blonde serving as the first-class stewardess, "but perhaps you should check on the rest of the passengers, n'est-ce pas?"

"O-oh," she flushed, suddenly remembering that there were other people on this plane besides from the handsome young man, "yes, I suppose you're right. I'll be back in a bit!" And with that she disappeared into coach.

Spy sighed, ran a hand through Scout's full head of hair, and settled back in his seat. He could never quite get used to the lanky young man's body. It was too twitchy. _I thought she'd never leave._

He hadn't even gotten his champagne yet… Or was it wine that they served? Either way, he was too tired to care. He set his seat back and curled up into it like a cat. Between the consistent pain in his left arm and the paranoia now plaguing him, sleep had become a rare luxury indeed. Spy inched his blanket up around his lean frame and willed his mind to quit racing, if only for a little while.

_Typhus was spreading like wildfire. Half of the men in his block alone had succumbed to the sickness. In some twisted form of suicide, he realized he wanted to be next. He'd stopped eating, passing the moldy half-rations of bread onto others. He could almost ignore the hot, twisting, gnawing sensation in his stomach if he tried—_

Spy's eyes snapped open again.

Groaning and muttering under his breath, Spy sat up in his seat again and glared out the window at the blackened sky, more irritated with the growing darkness than frightened by it.

**….**

"I 'pose this is the part where we part as friends, yeah?"

"Agreed."

Nevertheless the mismatched pair walked together to the row of public payphones, bodies stiff and gait uneven from the roughly thirteen-hour flight from the good ol' United States to grand ol' France.

Sniper shivered a bit and pulled his jacket closer, staring out a window at the beautiful city of Paris in horror. "Bloody hell! Is it always this cold here, Frenchie?"

"Shush," Spy snapped. He had deactivated the Scout disguise, opting instead for his usual suit-and-balaclava combo. Sniper couldn't help but wonder if the French just accepted odd sights like Spy wandering around on the streets. He leaned up against the wall, digging into his pocket for loose change as Spy hastily dialed Paulette's phone number.

With each consecutive ring Spy's grip on the receiver tightened. He had carefully rehearsed what he was going to say, and he was going through it one last time when finally someone on the other end picked up: "Hello?"

"Good afternoon," Spy began. "I was wondering if Paulette was at home."

"Who?"

Spy's heart sank. "Paulette Pelletier," he replied. "I'm a relative, and this is the number she gave me last time we spoke—"

"Oh," The voice on the other end became pitying, "I'm so sorry, but you must be talking about the last resident. Miss…Pelletier, was it? She moved about five years ago."

His heart had officially finished its descent into his shoes, where it melted into a disgusting puddle. "Ah. Thank you for your help, regardless."

"Merry Christmas!"

"Yes, yes…you too."

Spy hung up, glared at the payphone for a moment, and then spun on his heel, walking away without so much as a goodbye to the bewildered Sniper. He marched over to a map of France on the wall, staring at it with an intensity fit to kill.

Paulette had been his last connection to a normal life.

And now she was gone.

His outer composure was calm, but his mind was racing frantically, thinking of all the contacts and connections he'd made throughout the years. There had to be _someone _who could help him.

Sniper hadn't taken his eyes off of Spy even as he dialed the number home. Spy was good at hiding a lot of things, but even the Frenchman couldn't have hid the stricken expression on his face when he hung up. For the first time Sniper wished he could speak even a bit of French, wondering just who it was who had rattled the unshakable Spy so easily.

There was no denying it now, he mused. Spy was in Trouble.

"Hullo?"

"Hey mum! I jus' wanted ta let ya know that my plane landed in France all roight. I'll be home in another day!"

"Oh, that's great to hear, Lawrence! You'll be getting home before Lizzie, then!"

A wide, wide smile stretched across Sniper's face. "Lizzie's coming home too? I can't wait ta see her! Wait…" the smile dissipated. "She ain't bringin' Jack, is she?"

"Jack is her husband, Lawrence," his mother's tone became faintly scolding. "Of course she's bringing him!"

"But—but—but he's a roight jackass!"

"Jackass or not," Dotty Mundy replied calmly, "Jack doesn't have any other family waiting for him. Christmas is a time for _family_, Lawrence, even the members you'd rather not have."

As she spoke Sniper's eyes found themselves drifting back to Spy. Dotty continued on: "If Jack wasn't coming he'd been spending the holidays alone. No one—not even the jackasses—should have to spend Christmas alone."

Sometimes Sniper couldn't help but wonder if his mother was a psychic.

"I guess yeh're roight," Sniper sighed in resignation. "I'll call ya again when I get ta Sydney."

"Have a good flight, sweetheart. I love you."

Sniper cast a glance around before mumbling, "I love ya too, mummy."

He hung up slowly, lingering around the payphones as he plucked up the courage to face Spy. The Frenchman was still standing in front of that large map, hands clasped behind his back and rocking back and forth on his heels. Slowly Sniper came up to stand next to him. "So…everything all sorted out, spook?"

"Quite," Spy replied tersely.

"Ya know where yer going?"

"Oui."

"And ya know how ta get there?"

"_Yes_."

"Listen, spook," the faster he said it, Sniper figured, the better, "if ya ain't got somewhere ta go…yeh're welcome to join me."

Instantly Spy's gaze snapped to him. The Frenchman's gray-blue eyes went wide before narrowing dramatically. "And why on earth would I ever join _you_? Australia," the name came out in a sneer, "is hardly the place for a refined gentleman such as myself. No, I do not think fighting dingoes and riding kangaroos is an especially interesting way to spend my holiday. And furthermore, if there was one man I'd rather not 'ave to put up with for fourteen days, it is the uncultured bushman who doesn't shower and collects 'is own piss!"

Unfettered, Sniper rolled his eyes. "All ya had ta do was say 'no thanks, Lawrence'."

"_No thank you, Lawrence_." Spy scowled and made to move away, but all of a sudden a heavy hand was on his shoulder.

"Ya think yer good at hidin' it, spook," Sniper's tone was deathly serious, more serious that Spy had ever heard it, "but yer in some trouble. Now, I dunno who ya pissed off or what ya runnin' from, but it's bad enough ta send ya rabbitin' without a plan. If ya need help," he hesitated, "I'm there."

"Why?" Spy snapped. He continued to face away from Sniper.

"Because that's what teammates do. They _help_ each other. 'Sides, not even jackasses should be spendin' the holidays alone."

The hand released Spy, who didn't move, keeping his back to Sniper. The Aussie waited a moment more before shoving his hands into his pockets, backing away. "Fine. Have a happy Hanukkah."

He hadn't gotten more than five feet when he felt a presence behind him. He smirked. "All roight?"

"All right." Spy returned. "Not for your useless sentiment about teamwork or because Australia is just so _fascinating_—"

"Whatever you say, spook. Whatever you say."

**….**

About an hour later Sniper was already beginning to regret his charity. "I dunno what my parents are gonna say when I show up with you," he muttered as he bit into a croissant, nose wrinkling at the greasy taste.

"My, my," Spy waved a hand through the air, "what wonderful taste our son has." He grinned nonchalantly when Sniper glared at him.

"Not funny." The Aussie growled through a mouth full of crumbs. He wiped his mouth before continuing: "I mean, I dunno how ta explain ya. 'Oh, Mum and Dad, hope ya don't mind but I brought my pet Spy home 'cause he don't have nowhere else ta go. Be sure ta feed him twice a day and if he starts sappin' the kitchen appliances whack him wif a rolled-up newspaper—"

"Dis, t'es con ou quoi, Lawrence?"

"Wot?"

"…never mind." Spy cast a glance around the airport café as he replied. "Will it really be so hard to say 'this is a coworker of mine'? Will it really be that impossible for your parents to believe that their son is not the crazed gunman they assume 'im to be?"

"No," Sniper scowled, "it's just…wot do I say about the mask?"

"Scarred for life in a demolitions accident."

"Use that one before, have ya?"

"Perhaps."

Sniper huffed. "Well…wot about a name? I can't just walk around calling ya 'spook' the whole time."

Spy picked at his untouched muffin for a time and Sniper had almost resigned himself calling Spy 'spook' forever when the Frenchman finally spoke: "Philippe. You can call me Philippe."

"Philippe?"

"Is something wrong with the name Philippe?"

"No." Sniper cocked his head to the side. "Ya just don't look loike a Phil, that's all."

"And what, pray tell, does a Phil look like?"

"I dunno, s'just not the name I woulda picked."

"Yes, well, that's why your smelly van is called the Mundymobile."

"At least it _looks_ loike a Mundymobile."

"Oui. Oversized, cumbersome, and never clean—"

"Believe it or not, spook, I shower every day! Even shampoo my hair!"

"What's left of it."

"Oh, you are in no position to talk!"

"This is personal choice! Your thinning hairline is just genetics!"

"T'ain't thinnin' at all! Bloody hell, I thought it was your job to be observant!"

"And I thought it was your job to stay quiet and still!"

"Wankah."

"Bastard."

"…where were we again?"

"Philippe."

"Oh. Roight. Well," Sniper stretched a bit, "Phil it is, I guess. Noice ta meet ya, Phil." He outstretched a hand across the small café table, and after a moment Spy took it, shaking it gingerly.

"The pleasure is all mine, Lawrence."

**….**

_January 1942_

_ Three weeks. Three very long weeks. Three weeks of pouring over news from the front lines and tending to patients and struggling to spread the rations evenly. Three weeks of iced-over hell. My fellow men of medicine are getting twitchy, I believe. W— has been arranging for better conditions but I'm not sure how far he'll get. He has his hands full with the typhus epidemic._

_ Today was the first time in three weeks I managed to get close to the blue-eyed Jew. Frankly I'm surprised he's still alive; he's thinner than before, not much more than skin and bone. If the working conditions don't kill him, malnutrition will._

_ We were making a round in the factory. It smells horrid in there, but I have no right to complain. The SS took to bullying prisoners. I averted my gaze—and saw him staring at me. He knew me, recognized me. Hated me. Well, hate me if you must, I couldn't help but to think, but I am your only friend here._

_ I had been planning this moment from day one. But when the moment came I found my courage nearly failed me. It was his hatred, strangely enough, that sustained me. If he had strength enough to hate, then I had strength enough to change his mind. _

_ The action was quick, smooth, meaningless—tossing a crust of bread down in front of him. It was a piecemeal, worthless gesture, I'll admit, but there wasn't much else I could do. I didn't even look back. But I knew he stooped to pick it up, slid it into his too-thin jacket. I caught just one more glimpse of him before leaving. He was glaring at the ground, expression twisted in thought. _

_ I had not anticipated this from my young Jewish friend. He's a planner, and a plotter, and now he's planning something. _

_ I just hope he knows there's more than his life at risk._

* * *

HELLS YEAH WE-ARE-FINALLY-TO-AUSTRALIA. And expecting some mini-ranting on my behalf.

Up next: "Dotty turned to the fat, half-blind cat sunbathing in the open window. "It's nice to have the house full of children again, isn't it?"'

(And Australians, I apologize if I misinterpret your country. There's only so much one can learn from NatGeo. ;-; )


	8. Lawrence of Australia

I'm sorry, Australians. I am so, so, so sorry. What I do ahead I do in good fun. Blame Valve.

Also a "hullo" and "I love you all" to everyone who reviewed and I didn't get a chance to respond to, the plethora of followers this gained (for some reason?), and to my anons! And don't worry, if this story was going to be slash I would have marked it as such. It's just bromance. :3

Shout-out to thatzerogirl and xXSpiritKeeperXx for being willing to help me out, and to Bel, because when it comes to French phrases I borrow most of it from her. :3

Annnnd there's a reference to a fic of a friend of mine's in here. Shouldn't be too hard to spot. ;)

Is the fact that my ANs are so chatty bothering people? Feel free to tell me to shut up, guys. It's cool.

* * *

_**Chapter Seven: Lawrence of Australia**_

Australia didn't agree Spy, and that was just fine with him.

Mostly because he didn't agree with Australia either.

The instant he was off the plane he was hit in the face with a wave of heat. He staggered back as Sniper strolled off the jetway cool as a cucumber. "What the—what the—it's winter!"

"On the other side of the hemisphere, yeah." Sniper planted his hands on hips and cast his eyes around the bustling Sydney airport with a wide, wide grin. He was home. He glanced over his shoulder at Spy. "Bloody hell, yer dressed all wrong fer this kind of weather!"

Spy smoothed the front of his suit with a scowl. "I'm quite cool, thank you." Actually, the heat was stifling, and he was beginning to sweat bullets. He waited until Sniper had turned back around to pull at his already-somewhat-sticky clothes, grumbling about the state of his expensive attire.

Those lamentations fell on deaf ears. Sniper was drinking in the pristine Sydney airport with glee, heart swelling with homesickness as he heard the familiar Australian brogue carrying throughout the crowds. After nearly two years of being the only Aussie around, it felt good—no, better than good, it felt _beautiful_—to be back among countrymen. Sniper hadn't realized how damn lonely living on the other side of the world had been until now. For a long moment he stood stock-still, as hungry for Australia as a starving man for food.

"Lawrence…anytime time today."

Sniper shook his head. "Gimme a minute, spook. I wanna savor this."

Spy cocked an eyebrow as he looked out onto the scene. "An overcrowded airport? Shall I find a camera and take a picture of it for you?"

"That ain't wot I meant. I mean, this—"

"The airport."

"No, the feeling of stepping off a plane—"

"That's called jetlag."

"I hate you."

The moment effectively ruined, Sniper hoisted his carry-on a bit higher onto his shoulder and strode forward into the throng. "If ya get detained at customs, m'denying any and all involvement in yer presence."

"The same applies."

They made it through customs without so much as an incident, and it was only when they were hovering near the baggage claim that Spy began to notice something odd.

Specifically, something odd about the Australians.

He'd heard the stereotypes, absorbed them, thrown them back at Sniper. But in all his live-long years Spy had never expected the stereotypes to be so…true.

Every Aussie was distinguishable from a foreigner by their thick, luxurious mustache—and that applied to some of the women as well. They were collectively brawny, muscle-bound, and very, very loud. A loud cheer for some rugby team or another echoed throughout the airport, sooner countered by a group of opposing fans, and as Spy watched a brawl began right in the middle of customs.

Australians, he finally decided, were a very strange people for a very strange nation.

And, just as he came to terms with what sort of people he'd have to deal with for two whole weeks, Spy noticed another odd thing. Only this time, it was about Sniper.

Lawrence Mundy was clean-shaven. He was tall and gangly and not altogether that beefy. He was quiet and reserved and did not even try to take part in the brawl, which had spread from Customs to one of the international gates. While quick to temper he did not emote nearly as much as his fellows. In a fight he preferred a vantage point high and above the bloodshed, where he could pick off enemies at his leisure. Any other Australian, it seemed to Spy, would have been on the frontlines at the first gunshot.

Spy's realization was accompanied by a rush of amusement and pity:

Lawrence Mundy was a runt.

Sniper felt Spy's scrutinizing gaze and glanced down. "Wot?"

"Nothing," Spy plucked at his gloves, "I just could not 'elp but to notice that someone seems a bit out-of-place." He watched with interest as Sniper looked around, red suddenly coloring the Aussie's ears.

Sniper rubbed the back of his neck as he watched a few suitcases go by on a luggage carousel. He didn't respond to Spy's comment.

"What's the matter, Lawrence?" A smirk stretched across Spy's face. "Drop bear got your tongue?"

"Shut up, Phil."

"I'm _sorry_," the word rolled of Spy's tongue in a not-particularly-sorry manner, "I was simply making an observation. Being observant is part of my useless job, as you were so kind to remind me."

He realized he had hit a nerve only when Sniper didn't take the bait. The lanky Aussie stuffed his hands into his pockets and glared at the luggage carousel. After a moment of puzzled consideration, Spy stood bit straighter and did the same—until yet another thing caught his attention. "What is _that_?"

Sniper followed his gaze to a display of a cardboard, shorts-wearing Santa, who clutched a bottle of Foster's in one hand and gripped the reins of his kangaroo-drawn sleigh with the other. A corner of his mouth twitched upwards. "It's Santa. Wif kangaroos."

"Why?"

"S'a bit of an inhospitable environment for reindeers, doncha think? Too hot. So's when Santa comes to Oz he makes a quick pit-stop and swaps out the deer fer kangaroos."

"Do the kangaroos fly?"

"Nah. They just jump really far."

"I 'onestly cannot tell if you're bullshitting me or not."

"Welcome to Australia, mate."

He spied their suitcases coming down the conveyor belt and made a grab for them. Sniper effortlessly tossed Spy's to its owner, who caught it gracefully. "Can't believe ya got all yer weapons from Albuquerque ta Australia," Sniper grumbled.

Spy pointed to himself proudly. "_Spy_. I make a career out of deception." And with that, he turned on his heel and strode away. Sniper followed, tongue pressed to his cheek.

The mismatched pair made it through the airport, only to find themselves in a large mall. Spy scowled at the various shops, eyes coasting from a Vegemite shop to several outdoorsy-style stores hawking everything from standard mosquito nests to sprays guaranteed to keep dingoes away from babies. Holograms and teleprompts promised the latest and greatest in gadgets and gizmos, hoverboards for the perfect Christmas present and Saxton Hale action figures, batteries not included.

The din of the crowd overwhelmed the two exhausted travelers and Sniper pulled Spy to the side, explaining he needed a moment. The Aussie rested his head against the wall, breathing hard, and while he did so Spy watched an advert for Gray Industries with faint interest. "Gray Industries!" The perky female voice chirped over flashy images of gadgetry, "Bringing you the latest and greatest in machinery!"

"Couldn't kill 'em ta make a decent coffeemaker," Sniper growled. He had straightened up against the wall and watched the rest of the advertisement with a scowl. "Damn GI."

"'ave something against the mighty corporations, Lawrence?"

"Yes. T'ain't good fer nothin'. CEO is a former member of the Mafia, I heard."

"Oh, water cooler gossip—_plaid_?!" Spy's eyes shot to a clothing store in horror. "Plaid, plaid, plaid?! Pour l'amour de Dieu, Australia is insane!"

"Ah, s'a pity. I bought ya a noice plaid shirt fer Hanukkah."

"Ah-hahahaha."

"No, yeh're 'pose ta say 'honhonhonhon'."

"Oh God, your French accent is terrible."

They started off again, and as they pushed their way through the throng Spy couldn't peel his horrified gaze off the plethora of plaid shirts.

**….**

Once they were in the parking lot, Spy began to wonder where they were headed and how on earth they were going to get there—only to have his question answered for him. He stopped short. "_Non_."

"Yes!"

"No, no, no, no—"

"Yes, yes, yes, yes!"

"_I am not getting in that damn van_!"

Sniper stopped, folded his arms across his chest, and appraised the Mundymobile with the air of a proud father. "Glad to see ya made it all roight, Sheila." Behind him, Spy was gesticulating wildly, trying to calculate exactly how the filthy van they had left behind in Albuquerque had managed to catch up with them. Finally he dropped his hands limply and just glared at Sniper.

Sniper tapped the side of his nose with a faint smile. "An Australian never reveals his secrets, mate. Comin'?"

"Non. I will stay right 'ere, thank you very much." Spy dug into his pockets for his cigarettes and lighter, suddenly in dire need of nicotine.

Sniper barely hid his scoff. "Gonna get 'ungry and lonely fast."

"I doubt that—"

"Mum made a special home-cooked dinner just fer us."

Spy's stomach turned traitor and grumbled loudly. He glowered at his abdomen for a moment before raising his gaze back to the smug Sniper. "_Fine_."

"Ya can ride shotgun, if ya like."

A man off to execution could not have had a more despairing air than Spy did as he slowly climbed into the passenger seat of the Mundymobile. He wrinkled his nose. "It smells like piss and air-freshener in here."

Sniper paused in the middle of peeling the plastic away from a wintergreen car freshener. "I got rid of the Jarate," he muttered before resuming his task.

"ZESE IS WHERE YOU KEPT ZE JARATE?!"

"Bloody hell, yer accent gets thick when yer mad—"

"Do you 'ave any idea 'ow unsanitary zat ees, bushman?! You cannot just leave your bodily fluids wherever you like!"

"Medic wouldn't let me keep 'em in the mini-fridge!"

"BECAUSE WE KEEP FOOD IN ZE MINI-FRIDGE YOU EEDIOT!"

"…roight, I can barely understand a word yer sayin'—"

"Arrête tes conneries!"

"Keep this up and I'm making ya walk."

"Better than being in the piss-filled van."

"I told ya," Sniper started the ignition and the Mundymobile came to life with a contented purr, "I cleaned all the jars out." He started pulling forward.

"Yes but did you bother to clean the carpets—LAWERENCE LOOK OUT!"  
Sniper slammed on the brakes (sending the unbuckled Spy head-first into the dashboard) just as a gaggle of children zipped by on hoverboards. One of the boys slowed down momentarily to grin guiltily and call: "Sorry, mister!" before zooming off to rejoin his fellows.

"Damn kids," Sniper muttered, "they ain't even wearin' helmets—you all roight, spook?"

"Never better," Spy peeled himself off the dashboard and slumped back into the passenger seat, rubbing at his sore forehead. He shot a glare at the retreating group of kids before buckling himself up. "Hoverboards?"

"Yep. Spoiled rotten kids." Sniper started forward again. "Should be more careful."

"Why aren't you exporting any of this technology?"

"Huh?"

"_Ex_port—_Aus_tralian—_tech_nology."

"Oh. I dunno, I ain't the proime minister." Sniper shrugged as he steered the Mundymobile out of the airport parking lot.

Spy popped a cigarette into his mouth. "Australia could be the world's greatest superpower!"

"Well, maybe we don't want ta be. Maybe we're happy wif our hoverboards and holograms and koala bears."

"I was right all along, just a nation of technologically-superior idiots…" Spy's voice faded away as the Mundymobile rolled through the streets. He cocked an eyebrow at what appeared to be a demonstration of some sort occurring in the distance. A large crowd of people had gathered at the base of a building, some carrying picket signs and banners, while one man roared exclamations into a bullhorn. "What's that, then?"

"Protesters."

"And what are they protesting against?"

"Discrimination."

Spy squinted at the scene once more. Sure enough, the majority of the crowd consisted of…"Aborigines."

"Mm-hm." Sniper kept his eyes on the road as Spy swiveled back to look at him. "Protestin' 'gainst injustices done ta their people."

"And 'ow is the fight for justice going?"

"Not too bad, last time I heard. Finally gettin' counted in the census."

"They weren't counted in the census?"

"Gov'ment didn't consider 'em Australians—or, I should say," Sniper's voice lowered to a mumble, "didn't consider 'em _people_."

There was an interesting bitterness in Sniper's voice, and Spy would have asked him to elaborate more if not for the sullen look telling Spy that Aboriginal rights were, for the moment at least, a no-go area.

Spy took a deep breath from his cigarette and held it for a moment, enjoying the sensation of crackling air in his lungs. When he finally exhaled, it was with a dry observation: "Perhaps the Aussies 'ad better learn inclusion before exportation, yes?"

**….**

Spy had fallen asleep several miles back. Sniper enjoyed the silence even as he cast glances towards the snoring Frenchman, appraising the deep bags under his eyes.

They had left Sydney hours ago, and were barreling towards "Middle-of-Nowhere-Mates", as Spy had so kindly referred to it. There were no signs of technology out here—only a long stretch of road and the hot, dusty Outback. The red-and-gold wilderness was a familiar comfort to Sniper, who cast longing glances out the window when he wasn't sneaking suspicious looks at Spy. It would be great to get out there for a few days, he mused, armed with nothing but a bow, a quiver of arrows, and his wits. He'd done it before, and he adored the absolute isolation, the quiet hum of nature, and the thrill of knowing the only thing between life and death was one's own quick thinking—

An obnoxious snore escaped Spy and Sniper sighed.

Of course. Two weeks home and he was stuck babysitting.

Logic chimed in, reminding him who exactly had extended an invitation to Spy to tag along, but he shoved poor Logic aside, preferring Misery's company for the moment.

He wondered, briefly, if he could pry what was bothering Spy out of him. Spy was Monsieur Cool-Calm-and-Collected, he didn't just jump and run when something got out of hand. If it were something that threatened the whole team—Sniper's grasp on the steering wheel tightened—Spy had better come clean and come clean _quick_.

No, Logic chided, Spy adored subterfuge but he'd never hide anything serious from his teammates.

_Right?_

So, if it wasn't related to RED, then…what? A personal matter? No, that was impossible. As far as Sniper knew Spy had no friends, no family, no consistent contacts outside of the BLU Scout's mother…

Subconsciously Sniper eased up on the gas, slowing the van down considerably as he turned once more to the snoring Spy. Only this time, his countenance wasn't one of suspicion or worry—it was pity.

And once his eyes flickered to the window, that pity turned into confusion, and then into realization, and then into horror. He leaned across Spy, eyes wide. "No."

Spy grumbled in his sleep, eyes fluttering open. "_Oui, je pense souvent à toi et à ces heures volées dans cette petite maison qui sentait le chèvrefeuille_—Hein!? De quoi? Qu'est-ce qui se—Lawrence! What are you doing?" The Frenchman's eyes snapped open fully and he pushed Sniper back into the driver's seat. "Are we there?"

"Almost," Sniper replied absentmindedly. His gaze was still out the window. "Spook, wot does that look loike ta ya?"

Groggy, Spy followed his gaze out the window. "A factory," he muttered.

"A big, ominous factory?"

"Yes. A very big, incredibly ominous factory. The workers probably perform ritual sacrifices or something."

"Ya think so?"

"Indeed I do. Can we go now?"

"Not yet."

A faint whine that really should have belonged to Scout left Spy. "Why?"

"Because _that_ was not there when I left!"

Bored and grumpy, Spy turned once more to study the offending factory. It was rose up as a large gray mass against the blue sky, obnoxious but not essentially intimidating. On one of the larger buildings a 'G' and 'I' were stamped in pleated gold. Spy sighed. "Imagine that—something changes when you leave for a long period of time. 'ow unusual."

"GI," Sniper growled, "can't even drive home without seein' that damn logo."

"And we 'ate GI because…?"

"S'a long story."

"Then stop bringing it up!"

Sniper twitched as the Mundymobile stared moving. He glanced at the grumpy Spy. "Wanna hear my story?"

"Non."

"Fine."

The pair sulked for a few miles more, more akin to two grouchy children denied dessert than to two cold expert assassins. The silence was only broken when Spy slouched back into his seat, and his inexplicable misery caught Sniper's attention. "How ya feelin'?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, on a scale of 'that time ya got bit by the BLUs dog' ta 'a papercut', how ya feeling?"

"Bit by the BLU dog. What ever happened to that animal?"

"Eh, I think they keep it locked up somewhere safe while we're battlin'."

"Good. That beast was a terror."

"Beast?" Sniper chuckled. "She was this big!" He took his hands off the wheel to approximate a loaf of bread.

Spy's expression darkened. "Size did not make one ounce of difference when she was 'anging off my leg, incisors digging into my flesh!" He gestured to his leg. "I still 'ave the scars."

"Oh, whoop-de-doo, a puppy bit ya and ya still got some itty-bitty scars from it. Listen mate, if ya wanna talk scars yer gonna 'ave ta compete wif this one." Sniper turned his face to the side so Spy could see the dark red, unhealed scar stretching across his left cheek. "Got this from the BLU spook and it never healed."

"What 'appened?"

"Snuck up behind me—I saw him, though, at the last minute. We scrapped and he got the better of me." Sniper half-shrugged. "'Course, at the time, the twenty-foot plunge hurt a lot more than a knife cut."

Spy snorted.

"Wot?"

"You truly _are_ useless."

"Useless?!"

"You 'eard me, useless."

"Listen, snipin' ain't useless—"

"It is when you are too busy dying to actually do your job!"

"Look, I told ya before, the damn BLU 'as it out fer me, and I can't be watching the battle and me back at the same time! That's yer job! _You're_ 'posed to watch my back!"

A snorting laugh only served to anger the Aussie further. Spy rolled his eyes. "Please, bushman, I 'ave more important tasks on the battlefield than babysitting you."

"It ain't babysitting, it's TEAMWORK!"

"Doesn't teamwork 'ave to work both ways? When was the last time _you_ saved _my _life, hm?"

"Look—ain't—yer just—"

"Instead of shutting up, you turn into a stammering wreck when you're stumped. Nom de Dieu, Lawrence, can you do anything right?"

Something ugly flashed in Sniper's eyes and his gaze shot to Spy, oblivious to the fact that the wilderness has slowly given way to sparse farmhouses, and they were rapidly approaching a modest red one on the left. The Aussie's eyes narrowed dramatically. "_Say that again._"

"Can. You. Do. Anything. Right."

"OH I CAN DO PLENTY OF THINGS RIGHT, SPOOK, AND NUMBER ONE ON THAT LIST IS WASTING YA!"

"Come off it, Lawrence, you could not deck me even if you tried."

"Wanna bet?!"

"Anytime, anywhere!"

With a furious growl Sniper swung into the long gravel driveway of the modest red house before unbuckling and scrambling out of the Mundymobile. Spy did exactly the same, and suddenly they were shouting wildly and inarticulately at each other, for some reason neither was quite sure of, but both knew that backing down would be a sign of losing. Suddenly Sniper grabbed Spy by the collar with one hand, the other curling into a fist to slug him in the face—

"JUNIOR!"

—and suddenly Spy found himself in a crumpled, undignified heap on the ground. Dazed, he looked up to stare at the horrified Sniper, before following the Aussie's gaze to his father.

Spy had never given much thought as to what Sniper would look like in another thirty or so years…and now he wouldn't have to. The old man limping down the driveway and the rigid assassin standing above him were perfect parallels of each other, from unusual height to awkward, gangly limbs, to ears that stuck out just enough to be noticeable. He watched with rapt attention as Sniper's hands fell uselessly to his side. "Hey…Dad…"

"Don't you dare 'hey dad' me, young man!" The elder snapped as he approached. "Lawrence Octavius Mundy Junior, you have some explaining to do _and you best start now_."

Judging by the way Spy's eyes widened in delight, Hanukkah was going to last more than eight days this year. And judging by the way Sniper cringed backwards, he'd just gotten a year's worth of coal from Santa.

"Dad," Sniper cleared his throat, "this is my friend Philip—"

He was cut off again by a motherly cry of "Lawrence!". Both Mundy men groaned as Sniper's mother flew out of the house and straight at her son, wrapping him a giant hug. "Oh dearest, I'm so glad you made it home safe!"

"Hi…mum…" Sniper gasped. Even though his mother only came up to his chest, she still possessed enough lung-crushing hug power to make it difficult to breathe. He returned her hug with the most awkward of pats—all the time aware of the shit-eating grin spreading across Spy's face.

That grin was wiped from his face, however, when Dotty released her boy and turned to Spy. "Oh, you must be Lawrence's friend! Welcome, welcome!" She hauled him up off the ground and gave him the same rib-fracturing hug. Spy squawked and went rigid, unsure of how to react to this gesture of motherly affection.

Lawrence Senior scowled at the display. "Well?"

"Well?" Sniper replied weakly.

"Well, who the hell is this?"

"Lawrence!" Dotty finally let go of the panicking Spy in order to plant her hands on her hips. "Where are your manners?" Spy took the opportunity to slink behind Sniper and out of hugging range.

"Same place I left my respect for my son!"

"I'm standing roight here, Dad." Sniper took a deep breath. "Mum, Dad, this is Phil. He's a friend of mine—"

Lawrence Sr. made a growling noise at the back of his throat and Sniper scowled. "…who's come to stay fer the holidays."

"The more, the merrier!" Dotty chirped and wrapped an arm around Spy. "Welcome home, Philip!" Spy threw Sniper a _'help me' _glance before he was steered into the house by Dotty.

The two Lawrences were left to stare each other down. The elder tightened his grip on his walking stick. "Just a friend, eh?"

"_Yes_, Dad."

"If you say—what happened?" Lawrence Sr. lunged forward suddenly, grabbing Sniper's chin in his calloused hands and jerking his son's head to the side in order to squint at his scar. "Where'd you get that?"

"Cat scratch."

Lawrence Sr. arched his eyebrows. "Must've been a big cat."

"Really big," Sniper jerked his face out of his father's grasp, "Dad…erm…I'm glad ta see ya." He clasped his hands in front of him.

Lawrence Sr. sized up his son for a long moment. "Good to see you as well, Junior. But did you have to bring _him_?"

"Dad…he…he didn't have anywhere else ta go…"

Lawrence Sr. gave Sniper a withering look and the ruthless assassin cringed backwards like a naughty child. Lawrence Sr. snorted. "I thought we taught you not to bring in strays when you were eight." With that, he started towards the back of the house, no doubt to tend to his garden.

Sniper remained where he was, twisting his hat in his hands. He looked to the left and to the right, seemingly lost, before heading inside.

**….**

The Mundy residence, much to Spy's increasing amazement, could be considered nothing short of _quaint_. They walked through the front door into a cozy living room, complete with a squishy couch and modest television. There was a fireplace on wall, and Spy couldn't help but to arch his eyebrows at the large crucifix over the mantle. An undecorated Christmas tree stood in one corner of the room.

"No smoking in the house, sweetheart," Dotty snatched the lighter away from Spy just as he pulled it out of his pocket. "If you want to have a durry you'll have to do it outside."

Spy wasn't sure whether the sudden absence of his lighter or the fact that he'd just been referred to as 'sweetheart' disturbed him more. In any case, he finally found his voice: "Philip, please, Madame Mundy—"

"Oh, tush-tush, no need for that formal nonsense. Please, call me Dotty." Dotty patted his shoulder sympathetically before retreating into the kitchen.

"Madame Mundy, I insist—"

"It's either Dotty or Mum." Dotty poked her head around the corner, eyebrows arched. "Which'll it be?"

"Dotty…it is…then." With each passing minute Spy was growing more confused and more aware of how out-of-place he was in all this…domesticity. He cast another glance around the living room, seeking to regain his wounded pride.

The front door opened and shut with a bang, followed immediately by Dotty's call of: "Hats off in the house, Lawrence!"  
Sniper shook his head and took his Akubra off, flinging it down on the couch.

"And don't leave it on the couch either!"

Spy chuckled faintly as Sniper rolled his eyes and retrieved his favorite hat. "Yes, Mum! So," he turned to Spy with an air of dreaded expectancy, "wot do ya think?"

Spy pursed his lips together. "It's…interesting."

"Good interestin' or bad interestin'?"

"I don't know yet."

"Oh."

"Could do without Jesus over the mantle judging me."

"Ah, c'mon now, spook, that's just sacrilegious."

"For you, maybe."

Conversation lapsed, and Dotty (who had been eavesdropping the entire time) reappeared, clucking her tongue. "You two must be exhausted! You've been traveling all this time!"

Now that she said it, it was true. Sniper was swaying slightly and Spy looked dead on his feet.

Dotty shook her head. "You boys head upstairs and take a nice long nap. I'll wake you when dinner is ready. Lawrence, your room is exactly how you left it. Philip, you can take the spare room on the left for now."

"Fer now?" Sniper repeated incredulously. "Where's he gonna be sleepin' the rest of the time?"

"Well," Dotty took a deep breath, "you see, that's the thing. Jack is going to be sleeping in the spare room—"

"Why can't he sleep in Lizzie's room wif her?"

Spy opened his mouth to ask who Jack and Lizzie were, but Dotty cut him short: "You'll see when she gets here."

"So…wot? Ya gonna give Phil my room and make me sleep on the couch?"

"Not quite," a mischievous glimmer appeared in Dotty's eye, "the bunk beds you set up with Christian are still set up."

Horrified understanding swept over Sniper like a wave, and an instant later that sentiment was echoed by Spy. "No, Mum, we're grown men, we ain't—"

"Madame Mundy, I will gladly sleep on the couch, it would not bother me a bit—"

"Ya don't understand—"

"We would 'ardly fit there—"

"Please—"

"Do not—"

"Do—"

"_This_."

Dotty merely smiled and reached up to ruffle her son's hair affectionately. "It'll be just like all those sleepovers you had when you were young!" She flounced out, leaving two grown men to gape after her.

A moment of silence ensued, and then Spy cleared his throat. "I call the top bunk."

An instant later there was a cry of pain and a resounding crash, and Dotty looked up from her chopped vegetables to smile blissfully at the shouts of "PUNCHING SOMEONE IN ZE FACE EES NO WAY TO REACT!" and "THIS IS MY DAMN HOUSE, AND M'CALLING THE TOP BUNK!"

She turned to the fat, half-blind cat sunbathing in the open window. "It's nice to have the house full of children again, isn't it?"

* * *

Bunk beds are hilarious, simple as that.

And my inner history major curled up into a ball and died trying to reconcile TF2!Australia with actual Australia. _Valve, you can't just make Australia the most technologically superior nation on Earth and not tell me how that's going to affect history._

__Up next: "Oh good God, MUM! We're not gay! He's just _French_."

...my apologizes to the French as well.


	9. Wreck the Halls (With Bowels of Spies)

_****_I owe a biiiiiiig thank you to Belphegor and Jinny for their help with this chapter. And hullo and thank you to my steadfast anons (yes Wepul I'm talking to you)!

There's a minor continuity error in this chapter that I didn't spot until it was too late and Bel didn't notice. Sugar cookies for you if you can!

**Deck the halls with obligatory disclaimers, blah-la-la-la!**

* * *

_**Chapter Eight: Wreck the Halls (With Bowels of Spies)**_

Spy didn't know where he was.

And then he pulled himself out of the pillow his face had been buried and rolled over, staring up at the lazily rotating ceiling fan with a furrowed brow. His head was pounding and there was a funny stale taste in his mouth. Why was it so hot? Why was this bed so comfy? How did he get here?

A stinging pain jumped in his jaw and everything came rushing back with the speed and grace of a camper van. It was hot because he was in Australia. This bed was comfy because Dotty Mundy spared no expense for her guests. And he had dragged himself up here after thoroughly thrashing Lawrence and establishing the top bunk as his.

Huh.

So this is what a domestic life felt like.

He wiggled his toes and cracked his knuckles, rousing his body out of sleepiness. He forced himself to sit up, ignoring his swelling headache as he did so. For a few moments he sat, fiddling with the quilt, before sighing and slipping out of bed, landing on the cool wood floor in his stocking feet. He stood still for a moment, swaying slightly, before the sound of conversation caught his attention. He slid out the door and down the hallway, listening to the conversation between Sniper and his mother for a moment.

His attention was diverted by the open bedroom door to his right. Sniper's bedroom. Spy smirked and slipped inside.

Meanwhile, Sniper was contending with his own headache: his mother.

"Lawrence, I am your mother and I will love you and support you no matter what."

"Yeah, that'd be a real touchin' sentiment, Mum. If I were actually gay."

Dotty scooped a spoonful of soup up from the boiling pot and carried it carefully to Sniper, who was seated at the kitchen table. "Try this soup."

Sniper obeyed and smacked his lips with a thoughtful expression. "Mmm. Needs more salt."

Dotty returned to the stove and gave the soup a vicious stir. "You know," she began, "Philip—"

"Philippe."

"Philippe seems like an _awfully_ nice boy."

Sniper decided that now was not the best time to tell her about the time Spy had stood cackling over the dead body of his counterpart, howling "YOU SUCK!" between peals of laughter. "Ya think so, Mum?"

"Of course! And I can always rely on Lizzie for grandchildren—"

"Oh good God, MUM! We're not gay! He's just _French_."

Dotty turned back around and arched an eyebrow in Sniper's direction. "All right, sweetheart." She came back over to him and planted a kiss on his forehead. "But just remember: no matter what, I am your mother and I will always love you. Even if I don't necessarily approve of what you're doing…as long as you're happy, I'm happy."

Suddenly Sniper had the feeling they weren't talking about his romantic options anymore.

He smiled softly as Dotty pulled back. "Thanks, Mum."

"So, what prompted you to invite Philip?"

"Philippe. Erm, I dunno. He needed a place ta stay—"

"Poor thing," Dotty sighed. "No friends, no family?"

"Guess not. He's a secretive type, ya know."

Dotty patted Sniper's cheek and he only just avoided jerking away. "You did the right thing. I'm proud of you."

"Ai-ia-yai, Mum! I didn't do nothin' special! He nearly refused anyway."

"But you didn't let him, did you?"

"Well, no. Couldn't have just left him standin' in that airport, y'know?"

Dotty chortled. "Wouldn't have expected less from you. You've always been the protective sort."

"…eh?"

"Protective," Dotty repeated, "of your sister, of Christian—"

"Lizzie is my baby sister, she don't count. And Christian never needed my help."

Dotty clucked her tongue. "Say what you will, but you take after your father in that regard. You're both very protective of the ones you care about."

Sniper arched his eyebrows, but decided against telling his mother about the time he broke Spy's nose. He had to remind himself that this was his mother, and mothers, for the most part, were inclined to see the best in their children. "Whatever you say, Mum."

"It's getting close to suppertime, why don't you go and fetch Philip?"

Sniper stood and stretched. "Fine."

He walked out of the room and Dotty allowed herself a faint smile.

**….**

When he reaching the top of the stairs, the first thing Sniper saw was his bedroom door opened a crack, and immediately his heart dropped somewhere into his lower intestine. He scowled. "Spook!"  
"Yes?"

"Get outta my room!"

"Not until you tell me what on earth this is supposed to be."

Sniper entered his bedroom and sighed. A great number of his possessions were strewn across the floor, and Spy sat in the midst of them, looking as though he'd been having a field day. "I knew I shouldn't've left ya up here alone."

"You still 'ave not answered my question," Spy held up a stovepipe shako in horror, "what is this?"

"S'a hat."

"Where on earth would you be wearing this? It's 'ideous!"

"Hey! I loike that hat!"

"You would." Spy tossed it carelessly over his shoulder and Sniper winced. "What about this?" Spy inquired as he held up a toy stuffed owl.

Sniper's eyes widened in horror. "Where did ya get that?"

"I found it." Spy held it closer to him in a protective manner as Sniper leaped forward. "Ohohoho, still touchy about our favorite toys, are we?"

Sniper grimaced and stiffened. "No. S'just a stupid ol' owl, don't need it."

"So you wouldn't mind," Spy flicked out his lighter, eyes lightening up as Sniper tensed, "if I introduced Monsieur Lighter to Sir Hootsalot?"

A vein twitched in Sniper's temple. "Nope."

"Very well…"

Monsieur Lighter inched dangerously close to Sir Hootsalot, and an instant later the toy owl was snatched away from Spy. Sniper placed Sir Hootsalot carefully out of reach and glared at Spy. "And don't you even touch lil' Bruce." He pointed across the room to a little plushy koala bear.

Spy half-smirked. "Would not dream of it. Besides, I'm far too concerned with _that_." He pointed across the room to the ugly argyle sweater hanging in the closet.

"That is from me auntie." Sniper frowned. "I'm fond of it."

Spy gave him a look of long suffering and Sniper shifted, suddenly aware of the many childhood mementos cluttering his room. Spy stood and snatched a picture frame off of the old, scarred desk pushed to one wall. "Well," He grinned, "you were quite adorable as a gamin. Too bad you grew up."

Sniper felt his ears burn red as he looked down at the picture. It was him as a skinny, gangly ten-year-old, proudly displaying a Murray Cod with a gap-toothed smile. He wore thick glasses and his hair was completely flyaway. Behind him stood a grinning young girl with her own fishing pole.

Spy pointed to the girl. "Who is she?"

"Lizzie, m'sister."

"You 'ave a sister?"

"Yeah."

"You never told me you 'ad a sister!"

"Ya never asked—" Sniper trailed off and snatched the photo out of Spy's hands. He stepped a bit closer to the amused Spy. "Don't ya even think about it. Don't ya look at her. Don't ya talk to her. When she comes into a room, ya get out. Understand?"

Spy rolled his eyes. "Believe it or not, Lawrence, it is not my goal to sleep with every woman I lay eyes on. Besides, your sister is probably as ugly as you—"

"OI! Don't ya dare call me sister ugly! Lizzie is beautiful!"

"'ow sweet, a doting big brother—"

"BOYS! GET WASHED UP, IT'S TIME FOR DINNER!"

Both mercenaries winced at Lawrence Sr.'s thundering tone. Sniper poked Spy in the chest. "Stay away from Lizzie."

"All right, all right," Spy held up his hands in mock defeat, "I would not wish to incur the wrath of her formidable grand frère."

"Wot did ya just call me?"

"An asshole."

"I ain't an asshole!"

"You are if you threaten people with bodily 'arm for just looking at your sister!"

"That jus' makes me protective!"

"According to whom?"

"Me Mum! Oh, stop laughin'!"

"Ehehehehe, ahah, ah, tell me Lawrence, does your maman tell you you're special too?"

"Yer gonna get it, spook—"

"BOYS! DID I OR DID I NOT CALL YOU DOWN FOR DINNER?!"

Sniper went rigid and he flew back to the door. "Y-yeah Dad! We're coming! Now," he spun back to face Spy, "best behavior, understand?"

"Perfectly." Spy grinned and slipped past Sniper, down the stairs, through the living room, into the kitchen—

—and straight into a smörgåsbord.

Spy had never seen so much food in his entire life. He stood stock-still for an instant, gaping wordlessly at the feast spread out across the dining room table. From her seat Dotty beamed. "I didn't know what you liked, dear, so I made a little bit of everything. Junior said you were a bit persnickety when it comes to food."

"He's French, Mum," Sniper muttered as he walked in, "they're _persnickety_ about everything."

"You know, Lawrence," Spy rolled his eyes, "being persnickety doesn't mean I can't hear everything you say."

"I know." Sniper smirked as he sank down into his seat. Spy followed his lead, sitting next to him and admiring the array of dishes on the table.

Dotty hid her chuckle behind a cough. Lawrence Sr. twitched a bit and glowered around the room, feeling like the only one not in on a wonderful joke. "Let's say Grace."

Spy fidgeted. He watched with an attentive gaze as Sniper folded his hands in front of him and bowed his head. He copied the Aussie's actions with some confusion, wondering if he was doing right.

"Junior?" Lawrence Sr. barked even with his head bowed.

Sniper jumped a bit. "Erm…Come Lord Jesus, and, er, be our guest…um…let this food of ours be blessed. Amen?"

"Have you been saying your prayers, Lawrence?" Dotty inquired. She straightened and smoothed out her napkin in her lap.

"Yes, Mum. Nightly."

"Philippe?"

"Erm, yes?"

"Has Lawrence been saying his prayers?"

While Spy blinked slowly both Lawrence Sr. and Jr. spat out their wine, with exclamations of "Don't ya trust me?!" and "How would he know?!". After a measured moment Spy shrugged. "I wouldn't know. I suppose."

Dotty nodded. "Good. Dig in."

Spy helped himself to a dinner roll. "Everything looks delicious, Madame Mundy."

"Dotty," she corrected, "just Dotty."

Sniper looked up. "Can I call ya Dotty?"

"No, dear. You call me mother."

"Yes, Mum."

A few minutes of silence ensued, broken only by the clinking of silverware. Sniper cleared his throat. "So, what's new around here?"

"Gray Industries built a new factory in town." Dotty chirped. "The grand opening is in two days. Which is why Lizzie and Jack are coming."

"Warranted an invite, did he?"

Dotty nodded. "Oh yes."

"Hm. And Christian? How's he doing?"

"Well!" Dotty beamed. "He comes around every weekend to help out around here."

"He's a good lad." Lawrence Sr. nodded. "Finally got around to opening up his own bar in town."

"Did he? Good fer him!"

Lawrence Sr. cleared his throat. "So, what exactly is it you do, Phil?"

"Demolitions work," Spy said, dipping his bread into his soup gingerly. With his free hand he gestured to his face. "That is why I wear the mask—one day I stood too close to an excavation site, and—_boom_. No more face."

Dotty made a faint sympathetic noise, Sniper rolled his eyes, and Lawrence Sr. stared at Spy with the "you're-bullshitting-and-I-know-it" look only parents were capable of.

"Of course," Spy continued, "thank God for your son being there. I would not 'ave survived if not for 'is quick actions." He gestured loosely in Sniper's direction, shooting him a smug glance when he saw how rapidly the Aussie was paling.

"Erm, yeah," Sniper shifted uncomfortably, "I guess I did do a pretty good job that day, huh?" _Keep it vague, _he silently pleaded to Spy_, keep it vague, spook, please…_

"And let's not forget the rapid fox you 'ad to take down in the process!"

_Dammit spook, that is not what I meant by vague._

"What is it that you're doing out there, boy?" Lawrence Sr. exclaimed.

Sniper gave his father the widest, most-innocent smile he could muster. "Field medic."

"Field medic." Lawrence Sr. repeated flatly.

"Yeah, ya'd be surprised how many injuries ya can get workin' in the demolitions business. Broken legs, shattered limbs, stitches, bloody noses, charred faces…" Sniper rambled off a few more potential injuries before Lawrence Sr. raised his hand.

"Enough, lad. I know all about patching men up."

Sniper flushed and grinned sheepishly. "Yes, Dad."

"What did you do for a living, Monsieur Mundy?" Spy inquired as he lifted a piece of pork off a platter and onto his plate. Sniper arched an eyebrow at his choice and opened his mouth, but a swift kick under the table shut him up.

Meanwhile, Dotty had leaned over and patted Lawrence Sr.'s hand. "Senior was a field medic during the Great War," she explained to Spy, "and when he returned home he opened up a small practice as the town doctor."

"Oh really?" Spy perked up a bit. "Medicine flow through the veins, I take it?"

"Oh yes."

Both Junior and Senior cast their eyes towards the ceiling in a "Please Lord, give me strength" way. Spy and Dotty gave their companions slightly smug, sidelong looks before resuming their conversation.

"Of course, that's not the only thing they have in common."

"Oh? Please, indulge me!"

"Well, take those glasses off either of them and they couldn't hit the broad side of a barn!"

"_Really_?"

"Oh yes. And the sheer amount of plaid these two wear is horrifying."

"_I know_." Spy threw his hands into the air. "Lawrence owns three pairs of shirts and just rotates them, I swear!"

"The same!" Dotty leaned forward dramatically. "If it weren't for me I don't think Senior would ever change his pants!"

Junior and Senior weren't always on the same wavelength of communication, but at this moment in time they managed to share a deep and intense look of long-suffering.

Spy rested his chin in his hands. "Does Mundy Père 'old a grudge against GI as well?"

Dotty smiled. "No, I'm afraid. Senior is actually quite fond of the company—"

"Because Jack works fer 'em," Sniper muttered under his breath. He stabbed his slice of pork viciously. "I was qualified enough."

"He's manager of the factory over in One Tree Hill," Lawrence Sr. retorted. "You're a smart lad, Lawrence, but you've got no managerial skills."

"I didn't get the job 'cause I wasn't _Australian_ enough," Sniper shot back.

"Well, grow a mustache and maybe you'll fit in a bit better!"

"Yer one ta talk—"

"If it's any consolation, Monsieur Mundy, Lawrence is the upmost and outstanding example of an Australian in New Mexico."

At Spy's words Sniper started choking, and Lawrence Sr. arched a cool eyebrow in Spy's direction. "Is that so?"

"Oh yes." Spy nodded in a fairly self-important fashion. "In New Mexico he is the very paradigm of a true Australian man. Even without the mustache."

"Spo—Phil," Sniper gritted his teeth, "can I talk ta ya fer a second?" He stood and moved towards the living room.

"Not right now, Lawrence, I'm in the middle of a conversation."

"_Phil_."

"D'accord," Spy grumbled. He pushed his seat back and made to join Sniper, giving Dotty a faint wave of farewell as he did so.

Lawrence Sr. jabbed at his mouth with his napkin furiously. "There's something fishy going on between those two. I don't like that Phil. He's too flamboyant, too flashy…"

"Well," Dotty sniffed, "I think he's a _very_ nice young man."

**….**

The minute Sniper knew they were out of earshot he whipped around and shoved Spy up against the wall. He grabbed the stunned Frenchman by the lapels and pulled him close with a dangerous snarl. "Wot are ya tryin' ta pull, spook?"

"Get your filthy paws off me, bushman," Spy pushed Sniper away with a wrinkled nose, "your breath is disgusting." He smoothed out the front of his suit. "Now, what is this nonsense about me trying to…"pull" something?"

"Ya heard me." Sniper poked Spy in the shoulder accusingly. "Wot's all this nonsense about me bein' a…a…para-gim of a true Australian man?"

"Paradigm, Lawrence. _Paradigm_." Spy swatted Sniper's hand away. "And it's true. As far as Australians go you are something of a gentleman. Of course, an Australian gentleman is the equivalent of a French bum, but…" he trailed off, eyebrows arched, "did you want to get into an argument with your father at the dinner table?"

"N-no…" Sniper frowned, looking uncertain. "Not really."

"Then there you 'ave it. Astonishing as this may seem, Lawrence," Spy dug around in his pockets for his lighter, only to remember that Dotty had taken it away, "I am capable of actually complimenting someone _and_ meaning it."

This new revelation took Sniper by surprise and he stared at Spy, scrutinizing him intently. Spy sighed. "Can we please go back to the dinner table? My pork is getting cold."

"That's another thing."

"What?"

"Aren't, ya know—"

"No, I don't know."

"I thought Jews couldn't eat pork. Ain't that one-a yer ten commandments or somethin'?"

"For an Australian gentleman, your ignorance is astounding at times, Lawrence."

"_Well_?"

"Well, it's none of your business."

"M'sensin' some hypocrisy here, spook. How come ya get ta poke 'round my room and I don't get ta ask one measly little question?"

"Because _you_ are far more interesting."

"…compliment or insult?"

"Compliment."

"Stop that!"

"Complimenting you?"

"Yes! S'weird! Yer 'posed ta be makin' fun of me."

"Fine then, I will give you the negative attention you so desperately crave. Those shoes look like you bought them ten years ago, the pants look like someone vomited on them, that vest was never in style, and it smells like you 'aven't bathed in two weeks." He sniffed the air with a frown. "Make that a month. Better?"  
"Much better." Sniper folded his arms across his chest. "Thank ya, ya useless two-faced frog."

"It was my pleasure, you smelly, eediot bushman."

Sniper made towards the dining room once more, but the sudden sound of car tires crunching in the driveway froze him on the spot. His eyes widened in instant understanding. "Lizzie," he whispered.

At the sound of car door slamming he jerked in the direction of the front room. And at the cry of: "Mum! Dad! I'm home!" Sniper ran out the front door and down the steps like an overexcited puppy.

"LIZZIE! LIZZE YER HOME! LIZZIE, YER—"

At the sight of his baby sister he stopped short.

"Yer…yer…yer…yer…y-yer—yer—yer—yer—"

Lizzie Mundy laughed softly as she tucked a strand of brown hair behind her. "I'm what, stud?"

"Yer—yer—yer…"

Unfortunately poor Sniper's brain had broken, and he was stuck on repeat as Lizzie burst out laughing and laid a hand on her distended belly. It was up to Spy to sidle around Sniper and eye Lizzie critically before finally delivering the diagnosis:

"You're rather pregnant."

**….**

_January 1943_

_ Missing a pen. Must have misplaced somewhere. A pity, I quite liked it. Earlier I overheard one of the guards complaining about a missing packet of cigarettes. He was convinced one of his friends took it_. Idiots. _Cigarettes aren't like pens, they are too precious a commodity here to just lose._

_ W— says that there must be a mice infestation the storage foods. Bits of foods squirreled away. At least someone here is eating well._

* * *

Up next: "Spy elbowed Sniper out of the way and straightened his tie. "Bonsoir," he said, "I do not think we 'ave been introduced."'


	10. City Mouse, Country Mouse

Annnd we're back!

Sorry this took so long, I was playing on Tumblr.

Shout-out to OnitMithis for the great review, and gsppcrocks10 and glados-still-alive for them being them. :)

Onwards, Sugarplum!

* * *

_**Chapter Nine: City Mouse, Country Mouse**_

As Lawrence Jr. was to Lawrence Sr., tall and skinny, Lizzie was to Dotty. She was short, with rounded features and brown hair swept up into a bun, and as her amused blue eyes took in her panicking brother she exerted a very motherly air. "That's right, stud," she ran her hand over her swollen stomach, "pregnant."

"Ya can't be pregnant." There was a faint plea in Sniper's voice.

Lizzie arched her eyebrows and smiled crookedly. "In case you didn't notice in the thirty-something years we've been related, 'rence, I am a woman and perfectly capable of getting pregnant."

Needless to say, Spy liked Lizzie already.

He slunk around Sniper with the air of haughty alley cat. "Bonjour Mademoiselle," he purred.

Lizzie blinked, startled by his appearance, but recovered quickly. "Hullo! I'm Lizzie. And you are?" She stuck her hand out.

Spy accepted it gingerly and planted a small kiss on the back of her hand, smiling when she giggled. "My name is Philippe. I'm a friend of your brother's—urk!" He was cut off when Sniper grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and yanked him backwards, but the damage had been done.

Lizzie grinned widely. "It's nice to hear that you're making friends, 'rence."

"Oh, you would not believe the time 'e 'ad of it," Spy crowed from his new spot behind Sniper, "nobody wanted to be 'is friend at first, poor thing."

"I can imagine." Lizzie stared straight into her brother's face as she spoke. "He is something of an oaf, isn't he?"

"Oh, you 'ave no idea—"

"All roight, that's enough, this ain't about me!" Sniper held up his hands. "How long have ya been pregnant?"

"Erm, about five months?"

"Five months? Five? And in all the letters we exchanged ya didn't mention it once!"

"I was waiting for the right time to tell you."

"Oh, and when was that gonna be, when the baby was born?"

"See, this is why I waited on telling you, I knew you'd react like this, even from a world away!"

"React like wot?"

"React like it's the end of the world!"

"It might very well be!" Sniper snapped. "Because that means—"

"Means what?" Lizzie's tone went cold.

Further down the driveway the car Lizzie had arrived in opened and shut once more, and a muscled man climbed out of it with a bellicose shout of : "HEY THERE, LARRY!"

"It means," Sniper muttered just loud enough for Spy to hear, "that I'm stuck wif him forever."

Lawrence Mundy Jr. did not like Jack Williams. Jack Williams did not like Lawrence Mundy Jr. And it took all of their mutual restraint and knowledge of social norms not to break out into fisticuffs the instant they were within a foot of each other.

"Hey Jack!" Sniper exclaimed a little too loudly. "How ya been?"

"Busy as ever, Larry!" Jack returned, stuffing his hands into his pockets just as Sniper stuck his out to shake. "As you might have noticed." He jerked his head towards Lizzie with a mischievous grin. Slowly Sniper lowered his hand back to his side, reaching for his best grin but instead looking sick.

Spy furrowed his brow and appraised Jack carefully. He wasn't as tall as Sniper but he made up for it in muscle. His thick black hair was parted neatly to the side, his painter's brush mustache trimmed neatly. He wore a thick pair of glasses and a smarmy grin.

Spy disliked him immediately.

He elbowed Sniper out of the way and straightened his tie. "Bonsoir," he said, "I do not think we 'ave been introduced."

Jack's eyes roved over Spy, taking in his unusual appearance, before flickering back to Sniper with faint disgust. "Jack Williams," he shot his hand out. "Friend of Larry's, are you?"

"Phil," Spy replied evenly, making sure to crush Jack's hand in his grasp, "and yes, I am."

Jack grimaced as he pulled back, flexing his hand. "Well, let's not keep Mum and Dad waiting."

Lizzie stood to the side, smiling nervously at the interactions between the three men. "Well, c'mon then!" She stooped to pick up her suitcase, but her brother was there in an instant, shooing her away. "'rence! I'm pregnant, not crippled!"

"Same…difference," Sniper grunted as he hefted her suitcase into his arms, "holy dooley, wot are ya carryin' in here, weapons?!" The company made their way back towards the house, Sniper staggering from the weight of her suitcase.

"Baby books," Lizzie replied with a quirked eyebrow.

"Wot…d'ya need books about…babies…fer? They ain't…nothing special! Jus' little humans!"

Jack rolled his eyes. "Children are a little more complex than that, Larry."

"Not…really."

"And what do you know about children?"

"Babysitted, once," Sniper heaved Lizzie's suitcase through the front door, "little ankle-boiter was all roight, so long as ya didn't take yer eyes off him." He could hear Spy's soft laughter behind him and barely hid his own grin.

That grin was wiped from his face when his father stamped around the corner, leaning heavily on his walking stick. He stopped short and Sniper braced himself for a lecture, but instead there was: "Jack! Lizzie! How are ya?"

Lawrence Sr. stepped around Sniper to throw a welcoming arm around Jack's shoulder. "How've ya been, lad? Come in, come in, supper's a bit cold but it'll do. Lizzie m'girl! How's the baby?"

"A little kicker!" Lizzie crowed while Jack nodded enthusiastically.

"Hah, excellent!" Lawrence Sr. wrapped his free arm around Lizzie and steered the pair into the dining room, leaving behind Sniper and Spy.

Spy arched his eyebrows. "Parental favoritism—"

"Shut. Up."

"I was just saying—"

"And I said shut up."

The Aussie's ears were burning red again, and the same sense of muted frustration that had been present in the airport was rolling off of him in waves once more. He kicked Lizzie's suitcase with a twisted expression.

And for once, Spy knew to keep his mouth shut.

He left the fuming Sniper alone, choosing to join the rest of the Mundy brood in the dining room. He leaned up against the doorframe to watch the scene unfold. Dotty had just finished squealing over Lizzie's rounded stomach before turning to Jack and politely clapping her hands together. "Jack, dear, it's nice to see you." She didn't move in for a hug, and Spy felt a stir of triumph somewhere in his gut.

"Nice to see you as well, Dotty!" Jack hooked his thumbs into his pockets. "How are things?"

"Oh, fine, fine. Works good, pays good. Holidays are a busy time but I've managed to keep everything together!"

"That's nice," Dotty nudged Lizzie, indicating the plates that needed to be cleared off the table, "Can you give me a hand with these?"

"Sure thing, Mum!" Lizzie followed her mother into the kitchen while Jack and Lawrence Sr. sat down at the table. After a moment Spy joined them, already looking bored with their chatter.

Lizzie glanced over her shoulder with an excited expression. "Mum…" her voice lowered to a whisper, "is that the spook?"

"Hush, Liz, I'm not supposed to know." Despite her warning, Dotty could barely contain her own grin. "Let your brother keep his secrets."

"Oooh, but..." Lizzie squirmed excitedly, resembling a young girl for an instant, "But he looks exactly how I thought he would! I just want to ask him a few things."

"He's a spy, Liz," Dotty chided, "there'll be no asking him questions."

Lizzie slid a plate into the sink with a frown. "I wasn't going to ask about his job. Just…y'know, what America is like, what France is like, and get some dirt on my big brother." Suddenly she leaned up against the counter, grimacing and breathing heavily. "Oh, easy, babes," she crooned as she ran a hand over her stomach, "easy."

Dotty wiped her hands on a dishtowel and pressed a hand to Lizzie's swollen stomach. After a moment there was a slight nudge against her hand. "That's a Mundy in there, all right. You know, you and Junior both came out swinging."

Lizzie groaned. "Sorry for all the trouble I gave you when I was little, Mum—"

"No need to apologize, sweetheart, this baby is going to give it back to you tenfold, I can feel it. Do you know if it's a boy or a girl yet?"

"We'll know soon," Lizzie cast her eyes towards the ceiling, breathing carefully, "Jack thinks it'll be a boy. But I know this baby is a girl. I can feel it in my gut."

Sniper strode into kitchen just in time to hear the last bit, carefully balancing a stack of dirty dishes. "Eh, that might just be indigestion." He dumped the dishes into sink with a smirk. "Girl, ya think?"

Lizzie nodded vigorously and Sniper's grin grew wider. "Excellent. Now all I need ta do is stock up on guns and ammo fer when she turns eighteen."

"Please, 'rence," Lizzie punched his arm affectionately, "you couldn't stop me from running around when I turned eighteen, there's no way you're going to…" She trailed off when she noticed Dotty's eyebrows arching, "uh, forget you heard anything, Mum."

"Heard what, dear?" Dotty replied. "I was concentrating on the dishes."

**….**

"What are those women chit-chatting about in there?" Jack leaned around Lawrence Sr. in order to glance into the kitchen. "They take forever when they get to gossiping."

"Lawrence is in there too," Spy muttered as he dug his hand into a small bowl of candied almonds. He popped one into his mouth as Jack turned back to him with a puzzled expression, as if he wondered why Spy didn't understand his joke. The Frenchman chewed and swallowed slowly, his countenance one of barely-hidden distaste. As far as Spy was concerned, there was only one man in this room allowed to insult the uncouth bushman.

"So," Jack scooped a few almonds into his hand, "how do you and Larry know each other?"

"Lawrence and I are co-workers," Spy replied as he ate a few more candies.

"Oh? What's the business?" Jack gestured to Spy's attire. "Fashion?"

"Excavation and demolition," Spy put a particular emphasis on the two words as he picked up another almond, rolling it over and over in his fingers, "meaning there's a lot of danger to be 'ad. Cracking…snapping…a lot can go wrong in a demolition yard, very, very quickly." He pressed down on the almond and it snapped. Smiling faintly, he popped the two pieces of almond into his mouth. "And yourself?"

"Manager of the GI plant over in One Tree Hill." Jack reached up to twirl his mustache, "Been there over five years."

"Ah," Spy inclined his head slightly, "so you've made a career out of bossing others around."

"And you've made a living out of blowing up debris," Jack shot back. "That hardly takes any skill or forethought. No wonder it suits Larry so well."

"Lawrence," Spy gritted his teeth, "works as our field medic, and it's a valuable position, I assure you, Jacques."

"Oh really? Where did he get his degree—"

A 'harrumph' reminded Jack and Spy that they were not the only ones sitting at the table, and they both stirred, realizing that they had both risen out of their seats and were leaning dangerously close to one another. Jack eased back first. "Sorry, Dad."

Spy didn't ease back into his seat until Jack collapsed into his first. "My apologizes, Monsieur Mundy."

Lawrence Sr. just harrumphed again, eyebrows arching high into his receding hairline. No one spoke again until Sniper popped his head into the room. "Erm…Dad…Mum wants ta…decorate the Christmas tree." He avoided looking at Spy as he spoke, as if embarrassed to be caught doing such a domestic thing as decorating a tree.

"It's about damn time, that thing has been sitting in the corner for weeks." Lawrence Sr. rose out of his seat slowly, groping for his cane. "She wouldn't decorate it without her children, nope."

"Would you?"

Spy's sharp question made Sniper wince. The Frenchman ignored his teammate, staring coolly at the dumbstruck Lawrence Sr. The elder appraised by for a long moment before muttering: "If it were up to me I wouldn't have a damn tree in the first place." He stamped out of the dining room, leaving Sniper to glare at Spy, silently asking him if he wanted them to get thrown out of the house. Spy shrugged, silently replying that it was an innocent question, and Sniper growled before rounding on Jack. "Comin'?"

"Ah, as much as I love traditions like the tree," Jack had found something interesting to look at on the ceiling, "I've got an awful lot of business calls to make. You go on ahead, I'll catch up later." He pushed his chair back and made a swift exit to the kitchen.

"What does your sister see in him?" Spy muttered.

"I've been askin' meself that fer years, mate," Sniper sighed. "Comin' or no?"

Spy smirked. "I don't think your mother would let me walk away from such a steadfast tradition as the Mundy Christmas tree."

**…**

Spy had only ever decorated one Christmas tree in his entire life, and he doubted that it counted. It had been last year, when they were all stuck in Teufort for Christmas. Engineer had welded together a sorry-looking excuse for a fake tree out of scraps of metal, and it had been decorated with grenades, sticky bombs, and a handful of pocket knives. Scout had graciously lent one of his caps to use as the star of the tree. It had been an utterly pathetic and yet oddly endearing introduction to Christmas. Before that, Spy had spent most of the holiday season on the go, or otherwise holed up in a hotel room with a call girl and a bottle of booze.

So he sat back on the couch, content to watch Sniper and Lizzie argue about the type of garland to use, which light strands to use, which ornaments should get priority and what should be on the top of the tree.

"That angel is downright scary and if I have ta look at it 'til Christmas we're gonna have a problem."

"I think she's cute! And she has a lot more character than any dumb ol' star!"

"Ya blasphemous little brat, s'the star wot brought the wise men ta Bethlehem!"

"Children," Dotty didn't raise her voice but both Sniper and Lizzie went still nonetheless. "You'll have to find a tie-breaker."

Instantly the Mundy children rounded on Spy, the looks on their faces pleading. The Frenchman blinked and sat forward, looking at the tree toppers each held. "I prefer…the angel," he said at last.

Lizzie whooped and Sniper protested loudly, claiming that Spy only said that to piss him off. Dotty shushed the pair, pointing out that a tie-breaker was a tie-breaker, and Spy sat back again, slightly befuddled by the whole scene.

For a pregnant woman Lizzie had a certain amount of spring in her step when she bounded back to the tree with a squeal of "I get to put it on the top!"

"Oh no ya don't!" Sniper flung himself in front of the stepladder. "Pregnant women don't go in the air."

"I won't be in the air, 'rence, I'll be on the ladder." Lizzie clutched the angel to her chest protectively.

"And wot if ya fall?"

"Then I'll have someone at the bottom to catch me. Don't hover, it's very annoying!" She swatted him away and Sniper retreated to sit next to Spy, muttering under his breath.

Spy glanced at him, amused. "You do 'over, Lawrence. It would be somewhat endearing if your sister wasn't a grown woman."

Sniper snorted. "Ya don't understand wot its loike bein' a big brother."

The instant the words were out of his mouth Sniper knew he'd said something drastically wrong, although he couldn't fathom why. Spy's eyes hardened and his mouth fell into a thin line. He glared at Sniper before standing and muttering something under his breath about needing to unpack. He left the room in a hurry, leaving behind a bewildered Sniper, who barely paid attention to his sister precariously placing the angel at the top of the tree.

**…**

He didn't know what it was like, being a big brother.

He didn't know what it was like.

Furious, Spy slammed the door to Sniper's bedroom shut, scooped up a handful of darts, and began throwing them at the dartboard hanging from the wall. If he concentrated hard enough, the red center looked enough like the Aussie's face, so that each bull's-eye filled him with a perverse satisfaction.

He wasn't angry at Sniper because the Aussie automatically jumped to assumptions (although, he would admit, that was part of the problem). No, he was furious because there was a ring of honesty to what Sniper had said.

He hadn't been a big brother in a very, very long time, and for twenty-some years he had worked to forget he was ever a big brother. It had nearly worked, too. His life before spying at times seemed to be a hazy, unclear dream, and the older he got the harder it was to recall certain facts.

But now—thanks to Medic and Sniper—he was remembering more than he was comfortable with. He remembered, quite clearly, Antoine's curly, unkempt hair and Henri's wide, owlish eyes that took in everything. His stepfather's gentle voice and the way his mother always smelled like homemade soap…

Spy shook his head, shutting the memories down before they could even think to surface. He threw another dart into the board, scowling when it clipped the edge and fell to the floor with a clatter. "Merde!"

"Watch the language, Philip, there are a lady's ears around."

Spy whipped around, instinctively tightening his grip on the darts in his hand. When he saw it was only Dotty standing in the doorway, he relaxed just a bit. "Oh…Madame Mundy, you startled me…"

"Oh, I'm sorry dear, I didn't mean to!"

"It's all right. I'm just not accustomed to people…sneaking up on me." Spy half-smiled in a melancholy fashion and dropped the darts back where they belonged. He glanced back towards Dotty, who was still hovering the doorway. "Did you need something, Madame Mundy?"

"I was just wondering if you were feeling all right. You left the room in an awful rush."

Unaccustomed to being an object of concern—in Teufort when he wanted to slip away he could do so unbothered—Spy shrugged. "Oui, I am feeling just fine. Just a little out of sorts. Merci."

His subtle dismissal didn't work, however, and Dotty only scrutinized him further. "Not much of a Christmas fan, are you?"

"Ah, no, I'm afraid not." Spy collapsed into a spare chair. "I've never really…celebrated Christmas."

Dotty scoffed faintly. "Well, if you're going to stick around in this family you're going to have to get used to Christmas."

Spy looked up sharply, meeting her gaze in confusion. "Stick around?" He repeated blankly.

Dotty arched her eyebrows in an expectant manner, but Spy just stared at her, unwilling to accept her claim but at the same time not quite wanting to refute it. After a pregnant pause Dotty leaned forward and planted her hand on his shoulder, rubbing it in a motherly fashion. Spy jerked away, frowning deeply. "Madame Mundy…I appreciate what you're trying to do but I'd much rather be left alone."

Dotty's eyes were blazing with concern, but nevertheless she retreated, leaving Spy with a soft "Good night".

Spy slumped further down into his seat. What was he doing? He was supposed to be using this time to make a plan, not getting comfortable with the Mundy family. But when he attempted to close his eyes and concentrate, his mind stayed stubbornly still. It didn't feel like planning and scheming and weaving another web of deception. It was perfectly content right where it was.

With his contacts he could join Interpol. Or perhaps he could just buy his own private island and retire. Did he even make enough to buy his own island? He followed his hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling as he considered his future.

Heavy footfalls distracted him and Spy shifted as the bedroom door opened once more and Sniper walked in. "Do we make enough to buy a private island?"

"'We' bein' the two of us together or 'we' bein' the team in general?"

"The latter."

"I 'pose so. Why?"

"I 'ear the tropics are wonderful all year."

"'cept fer the hurricanes."

"Hm. I suppose I'll 'ave to buy a 'ouse further inland too, just to be safe."

"Got any islands nearby?"

"Not sure yet. Why?"

"Well, yer lady might want one all ta herself, ya know. I hear she's high maintenance."

"Lawrence, just because she enjoys the finer things in life, she is not 'igh maintenance. 'igh maintenance for you is buttoning up a shirt."

"Ahaha, go eat a stale baguette." Sniper lowered himself onto the bottom bunk. He glanced at Spy, who was still studying the ceiling. "Listen, spook—"

"The matter is over and done with, Lawrence. I'd rather not speak of it again."

He didn't have to explain what matter he was talking about. Sniper nodded jerkily, rubbing his sweaty palms on his pants. "So…how'd the first day in Australia go?"

"The food could be better, but the company isn't nearly as terrible as I thought it would be. No, wait, the female company isn't as terrible. I like your mother, she's a very sweet woman. 'ow you grew up to your current mess of a man with 'er for a mother is puzzling."

Sniper grunted as he laid back in the bunk, folding one leg onto the other. "I hear I take after me dad."

"That would explain so much."

**…**

It was quiet.

A little too quiet.

Spy sat up a bit, frowning when the bunk creaked slightly, and stared at the bedroom window at the vast expansion of land outside. There was nothing out there save nature, the only light given off by the pale sliver of a moon. The noises that managed to pierce the night were the faint yowl of a predator in the distance and the slight moan of trees swaying in the wind.

Spy laid back down, uncomfortable with the silence. Anything could be out there, he realized with a jolt of childish panic. Back in Teufort he'd been too tired each night to care that they were out in the middle of nowhere, but now he was acutely aware of the fact.

He missed the city. He missed the noises of the city, the cars and sirens, bustling neighbors and the sharp, almost bitter smell of the city streets. He missed the train that went by so often you didn't notice it, and he missed the way city lights reflected off of wet pavement after a storm. This countryside was alarmingly foreign to him, even more so than New Mexico.

"Wot's the matter, spook?"

Sniper's groggy voice stirred below him and Spy shifted. "Go back to sleep, Lawrence."

"Can't wif ya creakin' and shiftin' up there." Sniper's voice sounded muffled, as if he had buried it into his pillow. "Wot's wrong? Can't sleep?"

"It's none of your business."

"Too quiet?"

"What?"

"I said, it is too quiet?"

"Non. Go back to sleep."

"Fine. Lyin' wankah."

Spy rolled over onto his side, scanning the wall for the ticking clock mounted there. He stared at it, hoping the rhythmic motions of the clock would lull to him to sleep. However, he soon became absorbed in watching the little hand go round and round, and before he knew it an entire hour had passed.

In the bunk below Sniper's breathing was easy and paced. Spy groaned inwardly and carefully shifted himself, grimacing at every creak and groan of wood as he slipped out of the bunk and onto the floor below. He rolled his shoulders out, stretching and lamenting on how he wasn't as spry as he used to be, and slipped out unnoticed.

Or so he thought.

One bleary blue eye opened as the door slowly shut once more, and a soft mutter about damn spooks carried throughout the dark room.

**…**

The kitchen light was on as Spy descended downstairs, and for an instant he froze, wondering whether or not to continue in or to creep back upstairs. He wasn't really in the mood for company, but when he peeked around the corner he was relieved to see it was only Lizzie, rummaging around the fridge for a midnight snack. Spy smiled and sidled forward. "Elizabeth, what are you doing up at this 'our?"

Lizzie jumped a foot and pulled her head out of the freezer. She looked to Spy sheepishly, a spoon clenched between her teeth and a carton of ice cream in her hands. Her eyes flickered from the ice cream to Spy in explanation, and her eyebrows arched.

"Couldn't sleep," he explained before taking a seat at the table.

Lizzie nodded as she spat the spoon into her hand. "I know the feeling. D'you want any?" She held up the ice cream and Spy shook his head. "All right, more for me." She sat down across from him, digging to her treat. "So, what's keeping you up, spook?"

Instantly Spy's eyes shot to her and he stiffened. Too late Lizzie realized her mistake and cursed. "It is spook, isn't it?"

"Oui, but 'ow did you…Lawrence." Spy swore under his breath and slammed his hand against his forehead. "What did 'e tell you?" Of course the blathering idiot would tell his family about his top-secret job as a part of a top-secret organization. Idiot bushman!

"Not much," Lizzie shrugged, "he doesn't write home about his job much. Just his co-workers." Her face was on the ice cream, but her gaze flickered upwards to study the seething Spy.

"Oh really? And what did 'e tell you about me?"

"Eh, not much. He just complains about you, mostly."

"Of course." Spy took to drumming his fingers on the table, irritated.

The next few minutes passed in silence, with Spy staring across the room and Lizzie digging into her ice cream to find the bits of cookie dough. At the sound of a pair of boots thundering down the stairs, both looked to the entryway. A sleepy and slightly swaying Sniper stood there, blinking the sleep out of his eyes as he took in his teammate and his sister. "Well, ain't this a miserable little party."

"Can't sleep either, 'rence?"

"Nah," Sniper shook his head, frowning as an idea bubbled to the surface of his mind, "c'mon, let's get outta here."

"It's two in the morning, Lawrence, where do you suggest we go?"

"I've got an idea. Comin'?"

"I'm in!" Lizzie jumped to her feet. "Just like we're kids again, sneaking out at night and coming home at all the ungodly hours."

Sniper looked to Spy, expecting him to refuse the offer. "Hitchin' a ride, spook?"

Spy huffed and flicked a bit of imagined dirt off of his pajamas. "You know I cannot in good conscience let you drag your sister off somewhere potentially dangerous at an absurdly hour in the morning. However…if you insist on dragging us off on some asinine adventure, I'm going to need my lighter back."

Sniper had moved across the kitchen while Spy spoke, rummaging through a drawer and pulling out a scrap of paper. "Hell if I know where yer lighter is."

"Mum hid in the potato sack." Lizzie pointed towards a sack laying by the stove.

Spy followed her direction, plunging his hand into the sack of potatoes and rummaging around until his fingertips slid against cool, familiar metal. "'ow do you know that?"

"When we were young'uns Mum used to hide all the things she didn't want us to find in the vegetables." Lizzie beamed at Spy as he tucked his beloved lighter into his pocket.

Sniper tucked his mysterious piece of paper into his front pocket. "Ya wakin' Jack up?"

Try as he might, Sniper couldn't hide the resentment in his voice. Lizzie thought for a moment, then shook her head. "No. He probably wouldn't want to go anyway."

"Good." Sniper's response was a grunt. "Then let's go."

As a trio they bundled into the Sniper's van. The Mundymobile started with nary a sound, and the vehicle pulled down the long empty road into the night.

**…**

_January 1943_

_The lying, sneaking, filthy little snake! I should have known! He's going to get himself killed, and me along with him! Has he no sense at all? No, he has none! He's brazen and foolish!_

_It's best if I take a deep breath and collect my thoughts before I do something I regret._

_It was a chance encounter between myself and an SS Guard in the courtyard. As we spoke, prisoners passed by—not an unusual sight, and we would have ignored them entirely if one hadn't bumped into me. We both went sprawling into the dirt, and when I regained my composure I saw it was the young Frenchman now apologizing profusely, wringing his hands together in an act of meekness. The SS officer stepped forward, butt of his gun at the ready, but I stepped between the two, assuring him it was a mere accident. The Frenchman scuttled off before any further incidents could occur, and it was only after he was gone that I realized my pockets were a bit lighter._

_One of my pens and a lighter. The French rat pickpocketed one of my pens and a lighter! There's no mice in the food, he's been stealing bits and pieces away! He's a clever bastard, I'll give him that._

_What to do._

_What to do._

* * *

"Chaos, I don't like this nearly as much as I liked EMAT-"

"Shhh, audience. Neither do I."


	11. All of the Other Reindeer

_****_Contrary to popular belief, I'm not dead! And neither this is story!

* * *

_**Chapter Ten: All of the Other Reindeer**_

_Australia, 1936_

At the tender age of ten, Lawrence Mundy Junior was already painfully aware of how different he was. He was much, much smaller than the other boys his age, he didn't have any facial hair to speak of, and his too-large, too-thick glasses gave him an owlish appearance.

As a child, Lawrence Mundy Junior knew he was a runt.

He sat apart from the rest of the children tumbling and rough-housing in the playground, clutching _20,000 Leagues Under the Sea_ in his sweaty palms. It was one of his personal favorites, but suddenly he was regretting bringing it to school.

"Whatcha got there, Mundy?"

From his position under a shady tree Lawrence flinched. He turned his head slowly to stare at the bigger, buffer Jack eating an apple nonchalantly in the branches above him. Lawrence tried to speak, failed, and cleared his throat. When he did respond it was with a faint murmur, "A book."  
"About wot?" Having polished off his apple, Jack swung by his knees the branch, swaying slightly as he studied Lawrence upside-down.

"About nothin'," Lawrence snapped. He began to resume his reading, only for the book to be snatched right out of his hands. "Hey! Give that back, it isn't yours!" He sprang to his feet, little fists curling uselessly as another boy flipped through his book.

"Aren't you a little old for adventure books, Mundy?" Heath snarled slightly as he tossed the book to the ground. It landed in the dirt at Lawrence's feet, and the runt scooped up the book protectively, clutching it to his chest. Heath sneered. "Wot's wrong, Mundy? Gonna cry?"

"_No_." _Stiff upper lip_, Lawrence reminded himself, _just like Dad said_. He stood a bit straighter as a gang of older, bigger boys surrounded him. "Go away, Heath! I'm not bothering you!"

"Yer face is wot's bothering me." Heath took a step forward and Lawrence took a step back, only to be roughly pushed back again by someone in the ring of boys. He stumbled forward and fell, book and glasses clattering to the ground. Heath studied the glasses for a minute before smirking and raising his shoe slightly, hovering over the spectacles.

Lawrence stiffened. "No, Heath, I need those! No, please, please!" He crawled forward, only to be frozen by the sickening, gut-wrenching crack of broken glass.

"Oops," Heath sighed and stepped away from the broken spectacles. "I guess I should have watched where I was going."

Half-blind without his glasses, Lawrence scuttled forward and scooped them up into his hands, heaving in panic.

"Don't cry, Mundy." Heath rolled his eyes. "That's just going to make you look pathetic. More than usual, that is."

Lawrence's watery blue eyes shot to him, narrowing in rage, and a minute later the runt had launched himself at the older boy, tackling him to the ground and walloping on him with flying fists of fury. "You—bastard—I'm—gonna—"

He never got to say just exactly what he was going to do, because ten seconds later he was being hauled off Heath and thrown roughly to the ground by the others. Jack straddled the stunned Lawrence, cracking his knuckles with a wicked grin. "I hope you're hungry, Larry, because I got a knuckle sandwich right here fer ya—"

"LEAVE HIM ALONE!"

The high-pitched cry caught all the boys, Lawrence included, off-guard. As one they looked to the source of the interruption, eyebrows arching simultaneously as a group.

Elizabeth Mundy spread her legs as far they would go in her school-dress, flipped her braid over her shoulder, and tightened her little fists. "You leave my brother alone, you big bully!" She stamped her foot. "Or I'm telling an adult!"  
Jack glanced from Lizzie to Lawrence before scowling and dropping his readied fist. "He ain't worth getting in trouble." He explained to the others. "C'mon, let's go get some ice cream."

Lawrence gasped for breath the minute Jack's weight was no longer on his chest, but he didn't move a muscle until the last of the boys had shuffled away, throwing a half-hearted insult his way. Only then did he struggle up, cursing everything, and stagger towards the ruined remains of his glasses and his dusty book.

Lizzie skipped over to him with a very pleased expression. "Mummy says you should always say thank you when someone helps you, you know." She chided her brother faintly, smoothing out the front of her dress as she awaited her accolades.

"You didn't help, Lizzie," Lawrence muttered, tucking his glasses into his chest pocket, "you only made things worse!"

Lizzie's delighted expression shattered. "Well, excuuuuse me, Lawrence!" She planted her hands on her hips. "If it weren't for me you'd have the ever-loving," she paused, glanced around quickly for adults, and then lowered her voice, "_crap_ kicked outta you."

"Don't say 'crap', Liz, it's not a good word." Finally Lawrence turned around, but he couldn't hide his reddened eyes from his eyes. "You don't know what you did, did you? Now everyone is going to think I'm some big baby who needs his little sister to protect him!"

"I'm your sister, I have to protect you!"

"NO, YOU DON'T!"

Lizzie paled at Lawrence's uncharacteristic bellow. The boy began to stalk back and forth on the spot, waving his arms around. "I DON'T NEED YOU TO PROTECT ME, I DON'T NEED ANYONE'S HELP! I'M FINE ALL BY MYSELF! I DON'T HAVE TO RELY ON OTHER PEOPLE—" he scooped up a stone and threw it into the tree, hitting a bird's nest with surprising accuracy. The nest and eggs fell the ground with a sickening crack, and while Lizzie gasped in horror Lawrence just grinned. "I don't have to rely on other people," he repeated, "if I never miss."

A small, soft hand slipped into his, and he felt Lizzie lean up against him. "And what happens if you miss?"

Lawrence didn't answer; instead, he hoisted her up onto his back and started down the long dirt road towards home. "C'mon, Mum is going to want to know where we are."

"Oh, that's right!" Lizzie perked up a bit. "We're getting a new neighbor today! I hope he's nice!"

"Yeah," Lawrence muttered under his breath, "me too."

She rested her head against the nape of his neck, soothed by the rhythmic motion up-and-down of his steps. "Mummy said he's going to be different. I hope he's not _too_ different."

Lawrence grunted. "What's wrong with different?" He demanded.

Too late Lizzie realized her mistake. She cleared her throat. "Nothing." She assured him. "Nothing at all."

Lawrence glanced at her guilty expression and sighed. "How was school today?"

"Good!" Lizzie perked up a bit. "We started to learn about ah-thrith-me-tic. Y'now, addition and stuff."

"Uh-huh. And how's it going?"

"It's _haaard_. I don't like it."

"Ah, c'mon, Liz, if a big ol' dummy like me can learn 'rithmetic, so can you!"

"You're not a dummy, 'rence, you're the smartest kid in your year!"

"Well, you're just going to have to step out of my shadow as a genius, huh?"

Lizzie grumbled under her breath. "I guess so."

"Now," Lawrence hoisted her a bit higher onto his back. "what's eight plus eight?"

"Uh…eighty-eight?"

"_Elizabeth_."

"All right, all right! Eight plus eight is….eight plus eight is….uh, sixteen?"

"Yep. Now what's nine plus nine?"

"Seventeen?"

"No. Think about it."

The impromptu math lesson continued all the way home, much to Lizzie's displeasure, and when they finally reached the front door she slipped off her brother's back with a huff. "You're weird, 'rence." She stomped off the backyard without another word.

"You're weirder!" Lawrence shot back. He scuffed his shoes on the welcome mat, gathered himself up for what was ahead, and stepped in the house. A blast of flavor assaulted his nose when he did so, and Lawrence grinned widely. His mother was cooking. He tossed his hat and book down on the couch, knowing full well he'd get a scolding for the action later, and made for the kitchen.

Dotty Mundy was scolding the cat loudly for some transgression when Lawrence came through the threshold, but stopped her rant against leaving chicken where the (surprisingly spry) fat cat could get it. She straightened to study her young son as he climbed up into a kitchen chair. Her eyes roved over his miserable mien for a moment before sighing. "What happened to your glasses?"

Lawrence pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes and sniffled. "I, ah, tripped an' fell, and my glasses fell off an' some boy stepped on 'em…by accident." The last was hastily added as he lowered his hands, reddened eyes squarely on his mother.

"By accident?"

"Yes, Mum."

"Hm." She retrieved some milk and cookies and pushed it towards him, coming over to rub his back in small, comforting circles. "Lawrence, you know you can tell me anything, yes?"  
"I know, Mummy." His voice cracked a bit even as he reached to dip the homemade cookies into the tall glass of milk.

"Good. I just…" The words "I just don't want you to feel alone" were on the tip of her tongue, but she swallowed them back. No need to scare her son. "Why—why don't you go outside and play?"

"Okay," Lawrence gave her mother his best smile, "oh, and Mum? I got top marks on a quiz today."

Dotty _beamed_.

**…**

He preferred the outdoors. Inside you had to sit and be quiet and not fidget or talk loudly. Outside, you could untuck your shirt from your pants and get as dirty as you pleased.

Outdoors was where he belonged.

The Mundy's backyard was large and spacious, with trees dotted around the area and a garden carefully tended to by Lawrence Sr. A shed full of old tools and knick-knacks marked the property line before the land stretched on into wildness.

Lawrence settled himself down under his favorite tree in his favorite little niche, and reopened his book to join Captain Nemo on a fantastic adventure. He could get lost in these books for hours, and that's precisely what he intended to do—

"Whatcha doing?"

He was used to being interrupted at least once a day at school, but twice a day was just silly, and in his own backyard no less! Lawrence huffed and shoved his glasses up his nose. "M'reading."

"About what?"

"About none of your business! Go away!"

"Well. That's rude."

"I don't want any more trouble!" Lawrence barked from behind the cover of his pages, not even bothering to look up. "Just leave me alone!"  
A very long silence followed and Lawrence eased up, thinking that his antagonizer was gone. He drew out a breath, only to look up and yelp, scrambling up and away.

A young black boy stood just inches away from him, head titled to the side. His head snapped back into proper position and he scowled. "Relax. I don't bite."

"Where'd you come from?!"  
"Gee, when a mommy and a daddy love each—"

"Not like that!" Lawrence clutched his book to his chest. "I mean…how'd you get here?" His initial panic subsiding, the boy stepped closer to the stranger. He'd seen a few Aborigines in town, but never a child, and never one so…up close. It was only when they were standing nose-to-nose did Lawrence notice that the boy smelled faintly of soap and was dressed in clean, crisply ironed clothes that looked new.

The boy tugged at his starched collar. "I moved in next door today."

"Into Miss Bess's house?"

"Yeah?"

"With your family?!" Lawrence exclaimed. Miss Bess was a small widow with a small house, he couldn't picture a whole family living in there.

"No." The boy frowned before elaborating: "Miss Bess adopted me."

A very pregnant paused followed between the two boys. Lawrence had never met an adoptee before, let alone an Aboriginal adoptee, and the boy seemed to be wondering whether opening his mouth had been the right thing to do in the first place.

Lawrence pushed his glasses up his nose as he thought. After her husband died in the Great War Miss Bess had taken up a largely quiet and easy life. His mother got along with the woman just fine, although his father sometimes griped about her being a "lousy Protestant"…whatever that meant. After the past year, however, Miss Bess had been meeting with his mother more and more frequently, wanting to discuss something. Perhaps this little brown boy had been her great big secret?

Well, here was someone who didn't hate his guts yet.

Better make a good impression.

"M'name's Lawrence Mundy Junior—" Lawrence stuck his hand out "—but everyone calls me Mundy."

"What's wrong with the name Lawrence?" The boy asked even as he took his hand and gave it a formal, firm shake.

"I just don't like it, that's all."

"Oh. I'm Christian." The boy shook a loose strand of hair out of his eyes and smiled at Lawrence's puzzled expression. "You were expecting some kinda name like Oogaboogwooga, huh?"

"No!" Lawrence retorted, a little too quickly. "I've just…never met an Aborigine before."

"I'm only half Aborigine."

"Which half?"

"My mum's."

"If you were adopted, how do you know it's your mum?"

"I wasn't always an orphan."

Now, Lawrence wasn't an expert on social interaction but he knew a thing or two. He gulped, frightened that he already managed to offend, and began to apologize hastily. After a minute of incoherent blathering Christian waved his hand around, smiling slightly. "It's okay. Miss Bess seems nice."

"Oh yeah, she's real nice!" Lawrence eased back, although his heart was still hammering wildly. "One of the nicest people out there!"

Christian blew out a breath. "That's good. I've been in other homes, and…they've never been as nice as they seem at first."

"Well Miss Bess is very nice." Lawrence assured the boy. "What—what's it like, being adopted?"

"I dunno, what's it like, having parents?"

"It's nice sometimes, and…and other times not."

"I guess you could say the same thing about being adopted." Christian pulled at his starched collar once more before perking up. "Hey! D'you wanna—who're you?" His eyes snapped beyond Lawrence, head tilting to the side. Lawrence glanced over his shoulder to see Lizzie there, twiddling her thumbs nervously.

"That's my baby sister."

"I'm not a baby!" Lizzie snapped. She smoothed out the front of her dress and skipped up to Christian. She squinted at him, lips pursed in curiosity. "Are you an Ab-ridg-knee?"

"Half," Christian replied stiffly.

"Huh. D'you dance naked 'round a campfire? 'Cause Suzy Michaels said that Aborigines dance naked 'round a campfire."

"No."

"Can you talk to animals? 'Cause Suzy Michaels said—"

"No."

"But Suzy Michaels said—"

"Well Suzy Michaels is wrong!"

"You're weird."

"You're annoying."

A corner of Lizzie's mouth twitched upwards. She spat into her hand and stuck it out. "I like you."

Lawrence grimaced. "Lizzie, that's disgusting—"

He was cut off by the sound of Christian spitting into his own hand, and loud smack of two small, wet palms colliding. He sighed and pushed his glasses up his nose. "You were saying, Chris?"

"I was sayin', d'you wanna play Adventure? I saw you readin' that book," Christian pointed to _20,000 Leagues under the Sea_, "an' I thought you might wanna play Adventure?" He clasped his hands behind his back as a faint tremor ran the length of his little body. He smiled at the two Mundy children sheepishly.

Lawrence grinned and nodded eagerly. "Sure! How do you play?"

"Uh, well, we're mercenaries—"

Lizzie frowned. "What's a merc-nary?"

"It's someone who gets paid to go on adventures."

"Well," Lizzie crossed her arms over her chest, "who's payin' us?"

"I dunno, um, some rich Sultan."

"What's a Sultan?"

Christian quirked an eyebrow down at the blithely smiling Lizzie. "Why don't you just…go with it, okay?"

"Okay!" Lizzie nodded and folded her hands in front of her.

"Now, we're goin' on a quest to…defeat the evil army of an enemy king! And rescue the damsel in distress!"

"Just the three of us?" Lawrence's tone was skeptical.

"Yeah! We can do it. Now, our weapons!" Christian ran off, grabbed two sticks, and jogged back. "I'll the swordsman. You can be the marksman!" He shoved one stick into Lawrence's hand.

Lawrence held it up. "Jus' aim and shoot?"

"Uh-huh! Like a sniper!"

"Sniper," Lawrence ran his hand up and down the stick, imagining a fancy, polished gun in his hand, "sounds good."

"Whaddabout me? Whaddabout me?" Lizzie jumped up and down excitedly. "What weapon do I get?"

"Girls don't get weapons, Liz," Christian chided, "girls don't fight."

"Girls can to fight!" Lizzie stamped her foot. "Last week Suzy Michaels and Jenny Hillbridge got into this _huuuge_ fight." She spread her arms wide to indicate just how huge of a fight it was. Her lower lip jutted out in a pout and Christian smiled faintly.

"You can't fight because you're gonna be our medic," he explained, stooping to scoop a smooth oval rock out of the dirt. "This is your, uh, healing rock! It was given to you by a magical shaman, but you gotta be very careful with it, and you gotta look out for me an' Mundy, okay?"

Lizzie turned the stone over and over in her hands, thinking. "All right."

"So," Lawrence twirled his stick into the air and caught it, "how do we start?"

Christian broke out into a wide, eager smile. "Look out Mundy, there're crocs behind you!"

Meanwhile, Dotty had just set a fresh cup of tea down in front of neighbor Bess. The young widow smiled and thanked Dotty before craning her neck out the window to look at the children. "It seems they've hit off well."

"I told you, Bess, you've nothing to worry about." Dotty wiped her hands on a dishcloth before seating herself opposite the woman. "They're going to thick as thieves."

"I know." Bess sighed. "But I still worry about the boy. He's…different."

Dotty leaned over and clasped Bess' hand firmly in her own. "Young woman, if there's only thing to be said about my Lawrence, it's that he knows about being different."

**…**

"Lizzie, jus' wot are ya doin' back there?"

Sniper's gaze flickered briefly to the rearview mirror, studying his sister as she scrounged around the moving van. Spy half-turned to look at her as well, curious.

The van gave a sudden lurch as it hit a pothole and Lizzie braced herself against one of the cupboards. The door flung open and she smirked. "I'm wondering why you have a gun in your cupboard." She pulled it out and examined it. "And why it's got a woman carved into it."

It was fortunate Lizzie had a firm grip on the kitchenette's counter, because a split second later the Mundymobile had lurched to an ugly stop. Unfortunately for Spy, he hadn't learned his lesson from before, and his unbuckled body smashed into the dashboard with full force.

"Bordel," Spy hissed as he peeled himself off of the dash, "you 'ave to look out for that lead foot, Lawrence." He glanced at the furious Aussie, feigning obliviousness. "Can I 'elp you?"

Instead of replying, Sniper twisted in his seat to glare at Lizzie. "Put that thing down! A pregnant woman shouldn't be handlin' guns!"

"Relax," Lizzie popped open the chamber with eyebrows arched, "it's not loaded."

"YA SHOULD ALWAYS TREAT A GUN LOIKE IT'S LOADED—"

"Why do you even have this in your cupboard?"

"S'not mine," Sniper snapped, "it belongs ta Phil. Speakin' of whom," he rounded on the Frenchman, who was twiddling his thumbs, "wot is yer revolver doin' in my cupboard?"

Spy shrugged. "Well, your weapons were taking up all the space under the bed."

Lizzie crowed in triumph and gingerly got to her knees, poking under the unfolded Murphy bed. Sniper half-rose out of the driver's seat, but it was too late. Lizzie chuckled darkly and pulled out the sheathed kukri, admiring it.

"Put that back!" Sniper snapped, pointing a shaking finger at the pregnant woman.

Lizzie's bottom lip jutted out in a pout and she slid the large knife under the bed once more. "Got your rifle under there too," she muttered under her breath.

Both Mundy children huffed at the same time. Lizzie sat on the bed and wrinkled her nose. "Your van smells funny, Lawrence."

Spy shot Sniper a smug look. "'ow so, Elizabeth?"

"Like air freshener and…urine."

Spy just managed to hide his obnoxious laughter behind a clenched fist and Sniper's scowl deepened. "It's…it's this new carpet cleaner I've been tryin' out!"

"Well," Lizzie stretched, "it isn't working."

Sniper started up the van again with the mutter under his breath, and this time Spy took great care to buckle himself in. After a minute a small chuckle broke the silence. Sniper sighed and looked up into his mirror to study Lizzie. "Wot?"

"Nothing." Lizzie grinned and settled herself back on the Murphy bed. "I was just thinking."

"Of wot?"

"Of when we were kids…"

"Yeah?"

"Mum told me this story…"

"Yeah?"

"Of when you were just a little ankle-biter…"

Judging by the way Sniper stiffened, he was all-too-familiar with this particular story. "Lizzie, don't go gossiping!"

"Oh, Elizabeth, by all means, keep gossiping." Spy half-turned to look at the younger Mundy, smirking faintly. "I want to 'ear this story."

Sniper glowered at Spy. "I ain't afraid ta throw ya out of a movin' van, spook."

Spy shushed him and looked back to Lizzie. "Well?"

"Well," Lizzie bounced up and down a bit, "Mum says that when 'rence was a baby—y'know, just a little tyke—he was scared of the loo."

Sniper sank down into his seat noticeably as a wicked grin spread across Spy's face. "Go on."

"He was scared of the loo," Lizzie giggled, "so he used to find empty jars and pee in them!"

Sniper's face went red as Spy and Lizze burst out laughing. Spy sank forward, hands clapped to his mouth as laughs racked his frame. Lizzie sniggered, and the elder Mundy glared at her. "Oh, and I suppose I ain't supposed ta speak of the time a babbler crapped roight on yer head on the playground, in front of all yer friends?"

Now it was Lizzie's turn to blush bright red. "Well, it's better than the time you got yelled at in the museum for touchin' priceless artifacts—"

"And wot about when ya got plastered in that fancy restaurant—"

"Children, children," Spy breathed out, giggles finally under control, "you are both embarrassing. Now behave."

Lizzie stuck her tongue out at Spy and settled back. Sniper pressed down on the gas pedal a bit harder, and the van gave a wheezing cough in response before traveling forward into the dawn.

**…**

"Lizzie, wake up! We're here!"

Lizzie opened one eye to glare at Sniper. "Finally?"

"Finally."

The baby gave an unhappy kick and Lizzie grimaced as she sat up. "This mattress is so lumpy," she yawned, "how do you manage?"

Sniper shrugged. "Very carefully. C'mon, brat." He took her by the shoulders and gently lifted her to her feet.

"Where are we anyways?"

"I was about to your brother the same thing."

Spy was standing just outside the van, looking ahead at their destination with a very unimpressed look on his face. "And why 'e thought a shack in the middle of nowhere was worth a visit before three in the morning."

Puzzled, Lizzie poked her head out the door while Sniper slowly descended out of the van. She stared at the dimly-lit, sagging shack sitting the middle of the nowhere. "Lawrence, what are you—Lawrence!"

For Sniper had strode right up to the front door and started to bang on it, and when it creaked open slightly he walked right in.

For a few minutes Spy and Lizzie waited outside, both tired and slightly irritated.

"He's going to get us both killed."

"Or worse—'e's going to get us covered in filth. Stay 'ere for a moment, Elizabeth." Spy started forward while Lizzie eased back into the van. "Lawrence! Lawrence, what on earth are you doing?! You cannot just go barging into people's 'ouses!" He stepped through the threshold and scowled at Sniper's back. The Aussie was standing still with hands on his hips, studying something in the dim entryway. Spy's expression darkened and he stepped forward. "Lawrence, stop playing games—"

The moment he was fully through the threshold, something had grabbed him from behind and shoved cold, biting steel against his neck. Spy went rigid, fight-or-flight instincts kicking in as Sniper pivoted slowly on the spot, a wicked grin stretching across the Aussie's face.

"Y'know, spook," Sniper growled, "there's an old legend wot says a kukri can't be sheathed 'til it tastes blood. And me mate's kukri here? It ain't never tasted French blood before."

* * *

For one final time, I will apologize for the slow(er) pace of this story. Fear not! Starting with next chapter everything is going to go downhill...fast.


	12. Everyone Calls Him Mundy

Hey guys! Sorry about the wait on this one-writer's block hit and hit hard. Fortunately I've already got a jump on the next chapter, so the wait shouldn't be too long...

Heh.

* * *

_**Chapter Eleven: Everyone Calls Him Mundy**_

Blood roared into Spy's ears and he had just planned his escape when his unknown assailant sniggered, and Sniper's chin began to tremble from the effort not to laugh. But for all his renowned self-control he couldn't help himself, and burst out laughing.

The kukri came away from his neck and instantly Spy sprang forward, shoving Sniper roughly. "You bastard!"

"Oh God ya should see yer face, spook," Sniper stumbled to the ground, laughing and clutching at his sides, "ya looked ready ta shit yerself!"

Spy stood over him with fists clenched, ready to beat the ever-loving daylights out of the Aussie, when the lights flicked on overhead. Spy wheedled around to stare at the Aborigine leaning against the wall with a massive grin on his face. The Frenchman withheld a huff and smoothed out his shirt. "Hello," he began, doing his best to ignore the man's smirk, "you must be a friend of _Lawrence's_." The name came out in a snarl.

"Lawrence? I don't know a Lawrence. But I do know a Mundy." And with that, he moved around Spy and grabbed Sniper's hand, pulling him to his feet and embracing him. "And he got old!"

Sniper grinned as he returned the embrace before pulling away to study the man. "Old? Well, at least I didn't get fat, hm?"

The man patted his slightly paunchy stomach with pride. "I didn't get fat, I got _comfortable_. There's a difference." He released Sniper with a wink.

Spy coughed a bit, and suddenly Sniper remembered he wasn't alone. "Phil, lemme introduce ya ta me mate Christian. Christian, this is Phil."

"Nice to meetcha!" Christian bounced forward and seized Spy's hand, pumping it up and down with great enthusiasm. Spy withheld a grimace at the man's rough shake. "Any friend of Mundy's is a friend of mine!"

Christian was a dark-skinned man, a full head shorter than Lawrence, with a barreled-chest and a round stomach. He had a small beard, nearly trimmed, and dark, curly hair. Even as he sized the new man up, Spy managed a pained smile and a nod. "The same." He finally wrenched himself away from Christian, holding his throbbing hand close.

"So, where you from, Pete—"

"Hey! You can't start the party without me!"

At the sound of Lizzie's voice in the doorway Christian froze. He spun around very closely, with the odd look of a man who'd just gotten punched in the face and was happier for it. He straightened and sucked in his gut a bit. Spy watched him, eyes narrowing, and Sniper was too busy admiring the décor to notice.

"Hey there, Lizzie." Christian cleared his throat as Lizzie stepped into the light. His eyes landed on her rounded stomach before widening. "You need to get that bloating checked out, girl!"

"I'm not bloated, Christian," Lizzie laughed, "I'm pregnant."

"You mean you got a baby in there? Sheesh, didn't anyone ever tell you that babies have no nutritional value whatsoever? Who let you eat a baby?!" Christian rushed over and crouched down in front of the laughing Lizzie, pressing his ear to her stomach. "Uh-huh. I can hear it. 'Let me out! Let me out!'". He glanced up at Lizzie, pleased to see her face flushed with laughter, and his expression softened. When he spoke, however, his voice had deepened dramatically: "Congratulations, Lady Lizzie. As your humble servant I swear to spoil this baby rotten." He bowed his head in mock reverence.

"Arise, Sir Christian," Lizzie managed through giggles, "I gladly accept your services."

A very loud cough shook the pair out of their moment and somehow Sniper appeared between the two, sliding his arm around Lizzie in an as tactful manner as he could. Spy stood the side, feeling very out-of-place and forgotten indeed.

"Ah, where are my manners? Come in, come in!" Christian shooed the trio into his living room and seated them on his lumpy, moth-beaten couch.

Sniper bounced up and down a bit, testing the couch. "So, wot's new?"

"Young people are leading revolutions, old people are griping, taxes are spiking and the pub business is booming." Christian smiled wryly. "You know the saying, the more things change, the more things stay the same."

"I heard about the pub." Lawrence grinned. "Congratulations."

"I owe it all to your parents, really, they helped out with the down payment on the property—say! Shall I show off my fabulous bartending skills for you?" Christian beamed at the idea.

Sniper grinned and nodded. "I'll take a Roy Rogers, if ya got the supplies."

"No problem! And Lizzie?"

"Just water, thanks!"

"Bah, you're no fun. Pete?" Christian rounded on Spy, eyes expectant.

"Phil." Spy corrected. "And some water would be excellent."

Christian shrugged and moved into the next room. "All right—"

There was a sudden bang and a woof, and a fluffy dog came bounding into the room, howling excitedly. The dog made a beeline for Sniper, claws scratching against the wooden floor. With a happy yip the animal jumped onto the couch, licking at Sniper's face. Sniper laughed and cuddled the dog into his chest. "Kida! Good girl, good girl!"

"Kida." Christian popped his head around the corner. "Down, girl."

"Nah, she's good. Good ol' girl." Sniper buried his face into Kida's fur, hugging her to him. He scratched behind her ears, making her tail thump madly. "Haven't seen ya since ya were as big as a loaf of bread!"

Lizzie cooed and reached over, rubbing Kida's fluffy back. "Hiya, Kida!"

Spy sat rigid on the end of couch, staring at Kida in ill-disguised disgust. His lips pulled back into a sneer as the dog spun in Sniper's lap to face him, tongue hanging out of her mouth. "Stay. _Stay_. Stay, mongrel!" He scooted backwards as Kida plodded off of Sniper, towards him. She climbed up onto his lap, tongue wagging out of his mouth. He stiffened, arms pressed to his sides as Kida planted her paws on his shoulders, licking him wildly and getting slobber all over his fancy pajamas. Spy screwed his eyes shut against the unwanted affection, while Sniper and Lizzie just smirked. "'elp," the Frenchman managed. "Get this THING off me!"

Christian came back into the room, balancing four drinks in his hands. "_Kida._ Off! Paul doesn't like you!"

"_Phil,_" Spy snarled as the dog jumped off of him. He stared at his ruined clothes in mourning and attempted to wipe some of the dog slobber off of him.

"Sorry about Kida. She's a bit…excitable. You can go get cleaned up in the dunny, if you like." Christian jerked his head in the direction of the bathroom, and Spy eased off the couch, glaring at Kida as he did so.

Once the Frenchman had left, Christian's shoulders relaxed and he passed the drinks off to Sniper. "Odd sort of fella. Where's he from, anyway?"

"Montreal." Sniper sipped his drink nonchalantly.

"I think he's nice." Lizzie chirped, sipping her water.

"Ya think he's noice because ya don't work wif him."

Christian arched his eyebrows. "So you an' him work together?"

"He's a Spy," Lizzie whispered shrilly before polishing off her water. Christian looked to Sniper.

The older Mundy scowled and stirred his Roy Rogers with his pinky finger. "Liz, I don't think ya quite grasp the _secret_ part of _secret occupation_."

Lizzie shrugged sheepishly before changing the subject, "So, Christian, how's business?"

"Not bad." Christian shrugged. "With the new GI factory just about up and running, I got something besides bums and druggies to serve, y'know? 'Course, not many are willing to risk setting foot in the establishment of a, well, man like me, but you gotta roll with the punches." Kida settled down at his feet and he rubbed behind her ears.

Sniper arched his eyebrows. "No hollerin' out in the streets fer ya?"

"Nah, mate." Christian shook his head. "Let the young people try to change the world. They got twice the energy and half the brains." He collapsed down beside Lizzie and stretched. "I got my hands full with the bums."

Sniper hesitated, and then cleared his throat. "S'bad, then?"

"Worse." Christian shook his head. "With the Australium supplies drying up, everyone's scrambling for synthetics, and some of the results have been…" he shuddered, "not pretty."

Sniper rested his chin in his hand. "Drying up?"

"Well, between GI's mining, the drug trade, and the damn pharmaceutical companies hoarding whatever bits they can find for 'research'….s'bad out there. Very bad."

Lizzie shook her head. "Australium isn't going to give you immortality and it never will. It'll only drive you crazy."

"That's wot they're claimin' now?" Sniper arched his eyebrows. "That's bullshit."

Christian held up his hands in a "what-can-you-do" gesture. "People are willing to listen to anything if they think it'll keep 'em young and attractive—where ya goin', Liz?"

For Lizzie had stood abruptly, rushing to follow wherever Spy had gone. She stopped and turned around with a wry smile. "Funny thing about being pregnant—you've got a another person pressing down on your bladder." She dashed off, leaving the two men to stare after her.

"Speakin' of families." Finally Christian cleared his throat. "Got a gal, Mundy?"

"Nah," Sniper grinned over his drink and shook his head, "haven't found the roight one fer me yet."

"What, no girls in America—"

"American girls are all flash, no substance! Not the type I want fer a wife. And what about you, huh? No Sheilas catch yer eye?"

Christian's dark eyes flickered from Sniper to the hallway Lizzie had disappeared down. "Still looking."

Sniper watched his momentary flicker and scoffed. "Get yer head outta yer ass. You'll have a better view."

**…**

Grumbling about stupid mongrels under his breath, Spy wiped away furiously at the dog hair and drool on his nightshirt. When that failed to work—save to make him sneeze—he scowled and took off his shirt, shaking it furiously.

He hated dogs. Hated, hated, _hated_ dogs. No-good, slobbering things that barked and whined and made messes everywhere.

Just like Snipers.

The thought made him smile a bit, and he laid his nightshirt out on the sink, continuing to brush away at it. He shouldn't have worn one of his better nightshirts, he should have known this was going to happen—

The door was flung open suddenly. Spy yelped and jumped backwards at the sudden intrusion, but Lizzie had no time and/or patience for his formalities before she had grabbed him and flung him out of the bathroom with surprising strength.

The door slammed shut behind him and Spy scowled, spinning on his heel and banging on the door. "Elizabeth! My shirt, if you would be so kind!"

An instant later his shirt hit him in the face and the door shut again. For a moment Spy stood stock-still with his shirt draped over his face, glaring daggers at the bathroom door. "Merci."

He pulled his shirt off of his head and began to slip it on, freezing when he realized his tattoo was in plain view. Had she seen it? Would she ask about it? What was she going to—

No, his rational mind informed him firmly. Lizzie had been too focused on throwing him out to notice anything out of the ordinary. She hadn't seen it. And even if she had—well, she was Lawrence's sister, and if she was anything like her brother (and Spy had a feeling she was), she wouldn't pursue the subject.

So he took several deep, easing breaths as he buttoned his shirt up again, wondering if there was some great, cosmic entity out there who just loved screwing him over.

He smoothed out the front of his shirt—noting with dismay that it still wasn't clean—and went to rejoin Sniper and Christian in the living room.

Only to find that it was only Christian sitting there.

Spy stopped short. "Where's Lawrence?"

"He took Kida out for me."

"Ah."

He sat down across from Christian. The other man leaned forward, clasping and unclasping his hands. "So, Montreal, huh?"

"What?"  
"Mundy says you're from Montreal."

"I'm from France!"

"Mundy says you're not from France, Mundy says you're from Montreal!"

"Lawrence Mundy cannot be trusted!"

Christian laughed and ducked his head. "Whatcha call him Lawrence for?"

"What do you call 'im Mundy for?" Spy returned.

"Everyone calls him Mundy." Christian shrugged. "He hates being called Lawrence. Didn't he tell you that?"

Spy recalled, faintly, Sniper being furious with him for calling him by his first name rather than by his class name. At the time he had supposed he'd been upset by the breach of professionalism. He shook his head. "Lawrence doesn't tell me a lot of things."

"Ah." Christian sat back again, studying him. "So, what are you two anyways?"

"Co-workers," Spy said coolly.

Christian rested his chin in his hand. "Uh-huh. Funny, never pegged Lawrence as a—"

Spy's eyebrows flew into his balaclava.

"—guy who hung out with Canadians."

Spy's right eye twitched wildly. He gritted his teeth. "French. I am French."

"French-Canadian?"

Spy sank forward and pinched in bridge of his nose. He sighed heavily, looking up only when Sniper reentered with Kida. The dog clattered over to Christian, tail wagging, and settled down at his feet.

Sniper planted his hands on his hips. "Chris, ya gonna be in town tomorrow?"

"'Course! Here, lemme give ya the address to the pub…" Christian stood and rummaged around for a piece of paper and a pen. He scrawled down the address hastily and was about to give it to Sniper when Lizzie reentered.

"Sorry!" Lizzie smiled as she stepped down into the room. "So sorry about—what's this?" She looked down at the piece of paper Christian had shoved into her hand.

"Come see me this afternoon?" Christian beamed.

Lizzie studied the address for a minute and nodded. "Of course! I'd love too!" Behind Christian Sniper gave a square look and she hastily corrected herself, "We'd love too."

Christian's smile was dazzling. "Great! I'll spruce up the place for you!"

Lizzie yawned widely. Sniper came around to allow Lizzie to lean up against him. "Better get you home, Sheila."

Lizzie closed her eyes and nodded, exhausted. Carefully, as if he were handling china glass, Sniper scooped his sister up into his arms.

"Careful," Lizzie murmured, resting her head against his shoulder, "wide load."

Sniper laughed. "Let's get ya home." He nodded to Christian and Spy, who followed him to the front door.

Spy took the sleepy Lizzie from Sniper and descended down the porch stairs with her in his arms, leaving Sniper to face Christian.

The shorter man studied Sniper for a long moment before grabbing his chin and yanking him down to look him dead in the eye. "You clean?"

"I've been clear fer years!"

"Swear it."

"On me mum's cookin'."

Satisfied, Christian released him again. "See ya later, Laaaawrence."

Sniper rolled his eyes. "See ya later, Chris." He followed Spy to his van.

Christian leaned up against a porch post, watching as the trio bundled into the van and drove off. He didn't move until the van had disappeared into the dawn, and Kida came outside to whine loudly.

He glanced down at her with a fond smile. "Good girl." He reached down to scratch her ears before looking up to the spot the van had disappeared into. "Good girl."

**…**

He wasn't ready for the next entry.

Beside him, Archimedes cooed faintly and Medic glanced up. He scratched at his days-old beard and sighed, leaning over to smooth out Archimedes' feathers.

His journal lay in front of him on the desk, but he wasn't ready to relive the next entry. Not yet.

Feeling much, much older than his actual age, Medic stood slowly and walked to the telescreen mounted on the wall. With slight motions he punched a number into the keypad and waited.

When there was no answer, a metallic voice prompted him to leave a message.

Medic sighed again even as Archimedes fluttered over to rest on his shoulder. "Hello Fräulein Administrator. I am calling once again to discuss the matter we spoke of several days ago. The matter of my…" he paused, and the next words out of his mouth appeared to cause him physical pain:

"The matter of my resignation."

**…**

Far, far away from the despairing Medic—on the other side of the world, in fact—a man in overalls stood away from his latest creation. He wiped his greasy, calloused hands with a ragged cloth, admiring his craftsmanship.

After a moment his creation jerked and rattled, coming to life with what was easily mistaken for a gasp of breath. Its eyes illuminated automatically even as it stared forward blankly.

The light from the robot's eyes gleamed off of the man's well-worn goggles, and the madman grinned darkly.

"Well, would y'all look at that."

* * *

THINGS ARE HAPPENING.

Up next: "Holy shit...is that _Engie_?"


	13. You're A Mean One, Mister Mann

Aha, look, I updated on time! Huzzah my good sirrahs!

I didn't reply to anyone's reviews for last chapter because you all know me and you know I love to ramble, and any hints I drop from here on out are going to be...very interesting. So thanks, everyone!

Now, before we continued on, I have a small announcement to make.

You all remember Eight Mercenaries and A Toddler, correct?

Well, how would you like to see an Eight Mercenaries and A Toddler webcomic?

That's right, miei amici, my young but talented friend Spirit is working on an EMAT webcomic!

Since FF enjoys eating links, you can easily search "Eight Mercenaries and A Toddler" on Tumblr.

Give her a follow to see more!

I'm also on the Tumblah-if you like TF2 and whiny text posts, then I'm your girl. ;) Follow me-I'm thosetwogingers!

Now let's continue on!

* * *

_**Chapter Twelve: You're A Mean One, Mister Mann**_

It was Sniper's own giant snore that woke him up. He sat up sharply, only to bang his head onto the wooden plank overhead. He cursed and rubbed his sore head, blinking until his hazy vision came into focus. "Whosswot?"

Spy glanced over the morning newspaper at Sniper. He was seated at Sniper's desk, feet propped up on the surface. "Good morning."

Sniper shifted to look at the clock. "It's eleven-thirty!"

"Technically still morning," Spy muttered. "Your football teams are absolute rubbish, you know."

"Oi." Sniper pointed an accusing finger towards Spy as he maneuvered out of bed. "Ya can insult a man, ya can insult his country, but don't ya dare insult his sports. 'Sides," he scoffed, "s'not loike France is doin' any better."

"Better than Australia."

"We're gonna kick yer arse in the World Cup, wait and see!"

"Twenty pounds say Australia doesn't even make it to the semifinals."

"Yer on!"

They shook on it firmly. Sniper stretched and moved to his closet, rummaging to find the shirt with the least amount of wrinkles. "How long has everyone else been up?"

"A few hours." Spy licked his thumb and turned the next page. His eyes scanned the headlines as he continued, "You missed a lovely breakfast prepared by your mother. Eggs and bacon and…" he snorted, "French toast."

Sniper pulled on a shirt with a soft "oomph" and began to scrounge around for a pair of relatively clean pants. "Save me any?"

"Of course not."

"Should've known."  
"Well, that's what you get for not waking up on time."

"Excuse me, but I was exhausted from cartin' the two insomniacs around all night!"

"And who, exactly, proposed we go on a little adventure in the first place?"

Sniper opened his mouth, thought a moment, and closed it again. "Got me there." He muttered as he shoved his legs into a pair of slacks. He turned to the mirror, licking his thumb and grooming his hair back.

Spy smirked into his newspaper. "Missed a spot."

"Thanks." Sniper licked his thumb again and rubbed furiously at a particularly stubborn cowlick. He stood back to admire himself, scratching at his slightly stubbly chin. "Wot's the plan fer the day, then?"

"We're going into town. Apparently your mother wants to get a few last-minute gifts and Lizzie wants to see Christian and blah blah blah, so on and so forth."

"Ya know those last-minutes gifts are fer you."

"Hmm." Spy pursed his lips. "And there's no talking 'er out of it."

"Nope."

"I thought as much." Spy sighed, folded his newspaper, and stood. "Ready?"

"Hungry."

"Close enough."

Sniper flung open the door and barged right into Jack. He stumbled backwards into Spy while Jack's coffee sloshed down the right of his shirt. "Watch it!"

"Sorry mate," Sniper muttered as Spy pushed him upright once more.

Jack scowled and swiped at his stained shirt. "It's fine, I'll just change—" He stopped when he caught sight of Spy, and the lines around his mouth hardened in disapproval. He sipped at his remaining coffee. "Sleep well, Larry?"

"Huh? Oh, just fine!" Sniper shrugged and smoothed out his shirt, suddenly conscious of his raggedy appearance.

"I hope the bedbugs didn't bite. I hear they can be a right pain in the arse." Jack grinned darkly, eyes flickering from Spy to Sniper again, and continued down the hallway.

It wasn't until he disappeared downstairs that Sniper's eyes widened in understanding and he growled. "That bastard—" He lunged forward, only for Spy to grab him by the midriff and haul him back. "Lemme at him, lemme at him!"

"'e's not worth it!" Spy snapped, digging his heels into the floor as Sniper grappled forward. "Lawrence, don't!"

Sniper eased up and Spy released him. The Aussie growled low. "I swear when I get my hands on him—"

"Don't be ridiculous, that's your brother-in-law!" Spy snapped. And he added, "I'll do it."

Sniper snorted in amusement. "Oh yeah?"

"A pinch of arsenic will wipe that smug look right off his face."

"_Spook_."

"Not even to kill 'im. Just enough to make 'im sick."

"And you how much—ya know what, never mind. The less I know, the better."

"Agreed."

They made their way downstairs as well, just in time to see Lawrence Sr. pressed a well-weathered stethoscope to Lizzie's swollen stomach. The young mother-to-be was bouncing excitedly in her seat. "The baby kicked! The baby kicked!"

Lawrence Sr. ran the mouth of the stethoscope across Lizzie's stomach, smiling faintly. "There's a wriggler in there."

"Jack, Jack, c'mere!" Lizzie gestured for Jack to join her. She took his large hand and pressed it to her bare stomach. "Can you feel the baby?"

Jack waited a beat, expression neutral, before smiling faintly and nodding. "Yeah. Yeah I do."

Sniper strode over and knelt down beside Lizzie. "Can I, Liz?" When she nodded he smiled and pressed his hand to her belly. After a moment of silence a wide, genuine smile broke out over his face, making him look years younger. He slid his hairy paw of a hand over her skin, awed. "Wow, Liz. Wow."

Lizzie blinked back tears and nodded before looking over Sniper's shoulder. "Phil? D'you wanna come feel the baby?"

"Ah, no, Elizabeth, that's kind of you to say but I'd rather not intrude on the family moment…." He trailed off weakly at the expectant look Lizzie was giving him. With surprisingly skittish movements he edged over to Lizzie, touching his gloved hand to her stomach as one might touch a priceless artifact. He eased over her stomach, searching for the baby.

There was nothing.

Spy's heart stopped, and for an instant he panicked, thinking that something had gone wrong, that the baby was in trouble—but no, Sniper was still holding his hand to her, complimenting the baby's strength, and Dotty was taking her turn with the stethoscope, cooing gently.

Brow furrowed, Spy searched over Lizzie's stomach once more, pressing a bit harder to try and find this kicking baby. Not even so much as a nudge. He glanced towards Lizzie, smiling faintly and nodding, before stepping backwards, throat constricting as the Mundy family converged around the excited Lizzie.

His hand flexed uselessly.

**…**

"I'm going to stop into the clothing store to find a black tie. I need one for tonight, since it's the grand opening of the new GI factory—"

Beside Jack Sniper feigned surprised. He turned to Spy, who looked equally as shocked. "Really? Ya should've mentioned somethin', Jack!"

"Actually, Lawrence, I think 'e did once—"

"Twice."

"A few times."

"Every five minutes."

They sniggered loudly and Jack stroked his mustache, glaring at them. In the passenger seat Dotty turned around. "Boys," she began, voice chiding, "this is a great achievement for Jack, and you should be proud of him."

"Yeah, yeah—" Sniper patted Jack's shoulder, "—good job, well-done, an' all that jazz."

Jack scowled and shifted away from Sniper. "Thanks, Larry."

The Mundy family—plus Jack and Spy—had squeezed themselves into Lawrence Sr.'s old truck, a miraculous feat considered the passengers included a burly Aussie, a bushman who was more leg than torso, a pregnant woman, and a fussy Frenchman who liked his space. The midday sun blazed overhead and everyone was sweltering by the time civilization came into view.

Spy sat up a bit and peered out of the window, suddenly interested in the place Sniper had spent his childhood.

It wasn't much to look at.

The small town reminded him, vaguely, of a Sergio Leone. It was small, dry and dusty, with long rows of shops and stores winding down long, narrow streets. Everything seemed to be painted a dull hue of brown, and even the traditional Christmas decorations dotting the lampposts and store fronts seemed to do nothing to alleviate the dusty atmosphere.

It seemed to Spy that people stared at Sniper as the lanky Aussie clambered out of the van. The Sniper grimaced and made a beeline for nearest store. Spy followed, the sound of Jack greeting old friends resounding behind them.

**…**

"Sometimes…sometimes it's just easy ta think that he only married Lizzie ta make my life hell!"

"Hm-mm. That's quite the elaborate scheme on his part, Lawrence."

"I know, I know, it sounds stupid, but—"

"'as it ever occurred to you, even once, that perhaps Jack actually loves Elizabeth? Or, at least, likes 'er enough to put up with you?"

Spy chanced a glance towards Sniper and then looked back to the full-length mirror hanging on the wall. He positioned one red shirt in front of him, frowned, and then held up the other. "What do you think?"

"They're both red," Sniper grumbled. His chin sank forward to rest in his hands.

"Correction." Spy snapped. "One is red, the other is dark red. Hm…what if I went a bit lighter?"

"I still wouldn't care."

Spy shot him a look before spinning on his heel to tap the shoulder of the young woman examining the row of clothes behind him. "Excuse me, Mademoiselle, but do you 'ave anything in mauve—"

The young woman, who was dressed in a perfectly ironed black blouse and skirt, turned to glare at Spy with gray eyes. "I'm afraid I don't work here." She kept her tone clipped and businesslike, her English accent only adding to the crisp veneer.

Spy's ears seemed to twitch. "My apologies, Mademoiselle…" It seemed to Spy that this woman was very familiar somehow, that he had known her previously somewhere. There was something awfully similar about her to someone he knew—her cool, disinterested gray eyes, the sharp, brisk way about her. He backed away slowly, spun on his heel and moved back to Sniper.

The young woman watched him, carefully, before slowly making her way across the store, holding a men's blue dress shirt.

Spy frowned as he watched her go. Sniper looked up to him with a sigh. "What is it?"

"Something about her seems….off."

"So. Follow her."

"Lawrence, are you suggesting I stalk a woman who might be perfectly innocent across a clothing store?"

"M'sayin' ya should follow yer gut."

Spy glanced at him and smirked. "I knew I liked you." He cloaked and walked off. Sniper stretched, rolled his shoulders back, and followed the soft indents that Spy's feet made on the carpet.

Invisible, Spy followed the young woman as she joined a small, blonde young man who was bemoaning the store's selection. "Bianca, there's nothing here that fits my…" he threw his arms out dramatically, "_style_."

"Then look harder," the woman, Bianca, snapped.

The young man, who looked only somewhat older than Scout, grumbled under his breath and pulled out a horridly striped orange-and-purple shirt. "How's this—ow!" His hands flew to his head as Bianca smacked him upside the head.

"This is a formal affair and I will _not_ be embarrassed by your antics, Blake." Bianca growled. She then straightened up and turned to the closed dressing room door. "Mister Delmond, I have another shirt for you to try on!"

"That's mighty kind of y'all, darlin'! Just leave it hanging on the door!"

It was a good thing Spy was cloaked, because his jaw dropped. The voice emitting from behind the dressing room door was all-too-familiar.

_The Engineer_.

Spy felt, rather than heard, Sniper approaching, and before the Aussie could come into view of the little party Spy grabbed him by the collar and flung him behind a shelf, hiding both of them from view. He clamped a hand to Sniper's mouth and decloaked, pressing hard to keep the Aussie in place.

Sniper grunted and shoved his hand away. "Wot is it? Wot's the matter?"

"Shh! Listen!"

"Bianca, I hate to be a bother, but would you happen to have anything in—ngh—slightly bigger size? We Americans come big, y'know."

"No problem, sir," Bianca chirped before striding off, leaving Blake to help himself to the myriad of clothes.

If Sniper's jaw hadn't been secured to his skull, it would've hit the floor. In any case, it hung a little lower than usual. He stared at Spy in horror. "Holy shit…is that Engie? Wot's he doin' here?"

"We're about to find out." Spy kept Sniper pressed up against the shelf and peered around the corner, eyes narrowing as the dressing room door opened.

Out stepped a sturdy, square-jawed figure, that of the….

Spy's nostrils flared.

The sturdy, square-jawed figure of the BLU Engineer.

` "Wrong toymaker," Spy murmured as he slid back behind the shelf, one hand still bracing Sniper against it.

Sniper craned his long neck to catch a glimpse of the BLU, who was chatting amicably with Blake. Spy smacked his cheek lightly to get his attention. "Don't make 'im look this way! 'e'll recognize us instantly!"

"Yeah, well, I still wanna know wot he's doin' here." Sniper cracked his knuckles and rolled his neck around his shoulders, prepared for a fight.

"We'll 'ave to catch 'im alone—"

_"Why are we all hiding behind a shoe rack whispering shrilly?"_

Both men jumped a mile and only just held back yelps of surprise. Lizzie stood a little straighter and grinned, folding her hands on her swollen stomach. "What's the matter, boys?"

Sniper shushed her instantly. "We're on a covert operation!"

"Ooh, can I join?"

"This isn't a game, Elizabeth. Now shoo." Spy scowled and resumed peeking around the corner.

Lizzie tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear. She started rocking back and forth on her heels. "What are we doing?"

Sniper lowered his head, sighed, and glanced over his shoulder at Lizzie. "We need ta find out wot that American is doin' here!"

Lizzie stood on tip-toes to watch as Bianca returned with a few more shirts. The BLU Engineer thanked her sincerely before stepping back into the dressing room. Lizzie snorted. "That's it? That's easy enough!" She stepped out from behind Spy and Sniper and flounced forward.

Both men made noises akin to a cat being dunked in water, hissing and spitting and gesturing for Lizzie to come back as inconspicuously as they could. Blake glanced up, towards them, and a millisecond later Spy had slammed Sniper against the shelf again. "Your sister is going to get us killed—"

"Excuse me, miss, but I couldn't help but notice your blouse! It absolutely compliments your figure!"

"Wha—oh, thank you! Thank you so much, that's very kind of you to say."

"Where did you get it?"

"This store, actually."

"Oh! Do they have a good selection? I'm afraid I don't come here very often—"

"Mm-hm, blouses, skirts, dresses, the like. I'm shopping for a dress today, actually, but haven't found one I like yet."

"What's the occasion? Special date?"

"Ah, not quite. I work for Gray Industries, and our grand opening of the new factory is tonight!"

Realization dawned over Spy and he turned to Sniper with a delighted expression. "I love your sister."

"Hey, don't get any funny ideas, spook!"

There was a loud and phlegmy cough at the end of the aisle. Sniper and Spy looked up to see an old woman glaring at them. "I can't believe they let people like you out in public!" she shrilled before stalking off, muttering about corrupted values and the minds of children.

Hastily Spy relinquished his grip on Sniper, wiping his hand on his shirt as though he'd gotten something dirty on it. Sniper frowned after the old woman. "Well, that was very rude!"

"Focus, Lawrence," Spy snapped his fingers to get his attention, "we 'ave more pressing issues than the misconceptions of an OLD WINDBAG." He raised his voice, nearly breaking their meager cover, and shot a dagger-filled look at the back of the old woman. He huffed and rolled his shoulders back. "Now, we know that the BLU Engineer is associated with that woman, who works for GI, which means…." He trailed off, looking up at Sniper expectantly.

Sniper considered the scenario for a moment. "BLU….Engie…is workin' fer GI too?"

"That is the most likely scenario. The question is, why?" Spy leaned back against the opposite shelf, crossed his arms, and began to drum his fingers along his forearm, thinking.

Sniper shrugged. "Both Engies are smart, y'know? Maybe GI needs a, well, Engineer."

Spy shook his head. "If BLU pays anywhere near the amount RED does, why would 'e even consider leaving 'is job? There's something…._wrong_ 'ere." And it frustrated him not to know what it was.

Sniper shifted and made to answer, only to be interrupted by Lizzie's return. She was looking very pleased with herself indeed as she rounded the corner. "Your American friend is a new employee for Gray Industries." she chirped. "He'll be at the grand opening tonight."

"Thank you, Lizzie. Would've taken Phil an' I forever."

Spy, meanwhile, had turned away, muttering to himself. "We only 'ave a few hours to infiltrate that party—"

"Phil."

"We're going to need false identification and disguises…"

"Phil."

"Never mind 'ow we're going to get our weapons past security!"

"Phil."

"A layout of the building…"

"PHIL!"

Spy jolted up and stared at Lizzie. "Yes, what is it?"

She crossed her arms over her chest and grinned. "I can get you two in."

**…**

With a twitching mustache and an intimidating shine reflecting off of his glasses, Jack set his watery beer down and stared at Spy. "You want to go the grand opening."

"Oui. I thought I made that perfectly clear."

The burly Aussie scowled and shifted. "I thought you and Larry wanted nothing to do with my activities?"

"Plans and attitudes change." Spy waved a dismissive hand in the air.

Jack leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. "Tell me why you want to go."

A heavy silence hung in the air as Jack and Spy entered into a staring contest. Sniper, straddling a chair at the next table, watched with bated breath. Across the room, Christian rested his elbows on the bar's counter, a hand-towel draped over his shoulder. Kida rested at his feet, tail swishing, and Lizzie admired the native décor, reaching up to touch the dull point of a spear.

Finally, seeing as he had no other option and couldn't resort to violence, Spy rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. "Lawrence is in love."  
"_WHAT_?"

"WOT?!"

"Huh?"

Christian ducked under the bar to fight a round of the giggles as Spy smiled faintly at Jack. "It's true. While we were shopping 'e met the most beautiful woman, and they 'it it off right away. She's going to be attending the opening gala tonight. I plan to get Lawrence in there as a part of a…rendezvous. "

Jack stared him incredulously before turning to Sniper. He raised his glass back to his mouth as he spoke, "What's her name?"

"B-Bianca," Sniper said quickly, turning a worrying shade of red in mortification.

Jack hacked and spat out his beer. "Bianca? Tall woman with dark hair?"

"Uh-huh."

"_Bianca Mann_?!"

"She….didn't give me her last name." Sniper lowered his eyes to the floor in false modesty.

Seeing he appeared to be completely honest, Jack burst out laughing. "Larry, you dog! Bianca Mann, of all women! Oh, God, this is rich. I'll get you in there….if only so I can watch you fail."

Sniper looked up sharply and scowled. "Oi! I could have any woman I wanted, if I wanted to!" He seemed to have forgotten that he wasn't in love at all, for all that his stance revealed.

Jack laughed softly. "Sure, sure. Your confidence is inspiring, Larry."

Before either of them could come to blows, Spy raised his hand and cleared his throat. "Come along, Lawrence. We're going to need to get you a suit."

From across the room Lizzie glanced over her shoulder. "Why don't you go with them, Jack? You know what sort of attire 'rence is gonna need."

Jack's nostrils flared. "And leave you alone here?"

Christian had been cleaning a glass at the bar, but at Jack's words he froze. Lizzie stared at her husband coolly. "I trust Christian to take care of me."

Glancing over his shoulder at Christian, Jack noted the bartender's glare and shrugged silently. "All right. Larry, Phil, let's go."

Christian didn't move again until the three had left, and when the door had slammed shut he growled and resumed cleaning the glass, not realizing that it was already spotless. The corners of his mouth tightened and his brow furrowed.

Lizzie meandered over to him, resting her elbows on the smooth wooden of the counter. "Missed a spot."

A grunt was the reply, and Lizzie heaved a sigh. "Chris, look, Jack—"

"Doesn't trust me. Around you."

She flinched, visibly, at the sour tone in his voice. "It's not that, it's—"

"Contrary to popular belief, Liz, _people_ like _me_ aren't _stupid_. I know what he meant. He doesn't trust me around you because I'm a damn savage—"

The glass slipped from his hand and shattered. Christian jumped back from the spray of splintered glass before swearing under his breath. His eyes flicked back to Lizzie before he dropped to his knees, picking up the broken pieces with his bare hands.

Silently Lizzie slipped behind the bar and stooped to join him. "Need help?"

"Nah. Pregnant women shouldn't be picking up glass anyway. Might hurt the baby."

"Chris, did you know that there are rice fields in China where pregnant women work, have a baby, and then go back to work?"

"You're shitting me."

"Nuh-uh."

Christian looked down at the small pile of glass in his hands before smiling. "All right. Here ya go." He dumped it back on the floor, stood, and stretched. "I'm gonna go get a beer."

"Hey!" Lizzie sprang—with some difficulty—to her feet. "I said I'd help, not do it for you!"

"Tut-tut-tut." Christian shook his head. "Women these days, want all the equality and all the rights, but the minute you try to get 'em to work? It's all whine, whine, whine." He winked and vanished into the back.

Lizzie faked a scowl and mimed rolling up a sleeve. "Oh, this woman is going to enlighten you on a topic or two when you get back!"

Her shout echoed loud and clear into the kitchen. Christian shook his head as he helped himself to a beer and put the kettle on for tea.

**…**

One day out of three-hundred and sixty-five seemed a perfectly reasonable amount of time for a vacation.

Of course, Helen seemed to be the only one who realized that.

The nigh-omnipotent Administrator was looking far less intimidating than usual, sitting alone on a park bench in Central Park and feeding pigeons.

Well, feeding was too generous a term—she flicked a small piece of crumb onto the ground at a time, watching the idiot birds practically fall over themselves as they scrambled to get it.

The human beings passing by weren't much different. They were all entirely absorbed in the spirit of the Christmas season, hustling by with shopping bags and lists and hot coffees, and chit-chattering about this-and-that party and so-and-so's presents.

It was utterly embarrassing.

Helen rubbed her temples with her long, manicured fingernails. As much as she hated to admit it, she was _bored_. There was nothing for her in New York and even less excitement back in Teufort. The only other living being there was the RED Medic, and although watching him mope around had been entertaining at first, it got old quickly when it became apparent he was only going to express his odd sorrow by refusing to shave.

"Is this seat taken?"

The soft voice jerked her out of her reverie. Helen looked to the small old man standing by the bench. She couldn't make out any of his other features, for they were hidden by a fedora and a long trenchcoat, and the fact disquieted her slightly. Finally she scowled. "Yes. This bench is occupied."

The stranger was silent for a moment before a smooth hand—calloused and long-worked, certainly, but not wrinkled—came up out of the trenchcoat pocket to tilt the hat upward. "My, my, Helen, your vitriolic attitude is still as unappealing now as it was then."

Helen's lighter froze inches from the cigarette dangling from her lips. She studied the old man smiling at her before scooting over an inch. "Gray."

He settled down beside, smile still benign. "You know, normally one adds a "it's good to see you again" or at the very least a "it's been too long"."

"Trust me when I say that seeing you again is the last thing on my list of good occurrences, and that it hasn't been nearly long enough for me. Spare me your false pleasantries, Gray. You wouldn't have tracked me down personally if it weren't important." At long last she lit her cigarette, studying the impassive Gray from the corner of her eye.

Gray stared at the pigeons fluttering around on the pavement. "Disgusting creatures, aren't they? Overpopulated, mindless creatures that fight and feed with the same basic instinct. And tomorrow, if all the pigeons of the world were to drop dead, who would miss them? The world would panic at first, but then we would adjust to this new, pigeon-less world."

Smoke billowed out of Helen's nostrils. "And I trust that you're working on a way to destroy these annoying, destructive pigeons."

"You would be correct, my dear Helen." Gray folded his hands together neatly. "But I can't do it alone. I need aid."

"From me."

"Indeed."

"And you elected to hand me the dishonor of helping you because…"

"Because TF Industries knows what it's doing, and its head—" here he looked her way before refocusing on the pigeons "—has her feet on the ground."

Helen snorted. "Only when compared to the likes of Cave Johnson."

"Do not talk to me about Cave Johnson. I wouldn't touch Apeture with a forty-foot rod, never mind the vast project I have in mind."

"And Black Mesa?"

Gray made a contemptuous noise in the back of his throat and Helen smiled wryly. "I thought as much. However, Mister Mann, I'm afraid I have to decline your offer."

He looked to her sharply, eyebrows coming together in confusion.

"I know you," she continued evenly. She nodded towards the flock of pigeons. "Yes, they are stupid and useless and noisy, but there is something rather…entertaining in watching them struggle."

Gray opened his mouth to argue, but Helen stood, readying herself to leave. "Besides, if you wipe out all of mankind, who on earth is supposed to buy Mann Co. products?"

There was a quick flash of fury in Gray's cold eyes and his features twisted. "Do not speak to me about Mann Co."

Helen laughed without humor. "It will never be yours."

"The Romans said the same thing about their great city before it fell. Mann Co. will be mine, Helen, and you can either work with me towards that goal…or for me."

"Empty threats do not become you, Gray."

'Therefore I do not intend to make them empty."

Helen stared at him, expression cool. "No deal."

"Very well." Gray sniffed. "Be on your way, then."

It was only when she turned to leave that he added, "Oh, and Bianca says hello."

Helen ignored him, walking away stiffly. The park was empty, for the gray skies above finally yielded fat, white snowflakes. And as they blanketed the world in silent white, a single, phlegmy cough rang through the trees, sending pigeons scattering.

She glanced over her shoulder to see Gray pulling a handkerchief away from his mouth, staring at in undisguised horror. Helen's mouth curled upwards into a smirk.

Oh, things were about to get very interesting indeed.

* * *

Oh, questions, questions. I can almost see the grinding gears in your brains.

Up next: "Looks like y'all got a Spah 'round here..."


	14. RED White and BLU

I swear I'll have this fic finished before next Christmas if it kills me.

Enjoy!

* * *

_**Chapter Thirteen: RED, White, and BLU**_

Lizzie's breath came in swift, uneven spurts. Sweat had plastered her hair to her forehead and neck. She had both arms wrapped around her abdomen. Hot, stinging tears trickled from her eyes, rolling down her flushed cheeks. A whimper bubbled up in her throat, but she swallowed it back.

She kept her head pressed to the pillow even as she heard the door open. "Liz? We're on our way out."

She forced herself to sit up, rubbing at her watery eyes until the hovering Jack in the doorway came into focus. "Hey. Have fun. Don't beat my brother up too bad, okay?"

"Sure." He hesitated. "You okay?"

She sighed forlornly and nodded. "Yeah. Ye—yeah I'll be fine. Have a good time." Her smile was wan, but it wasn't weak enough to keep Jack from slowly backing out once more, shutting the door behind him.

She lay back on the bed, folded her arms behind her head, and listened to his heavy footfalls descending down the stairs. About twenty seconds later two conflicting voices rose outside the room. Philippe and Lawrence were arguing about something, and as she listened to their exchanged barbs a small smile came to her face.

"_Those_ shoes with _that _tie?"

"_Yer_ body with _yer_ face?"

"Oh, is that really the best you can do?"

"I would be thinkin' clearer but this tie is cuttin' off all my oxygen ta my brain!"

"You still 'ave brain cells to spare?"

"Hey, yer the one who tied it too tight!"

"I know."

Lizzie could almost see Philippe's smug grin and Lawrence's pout, and her grin grew a little more. But then their voices carried onwards, fading into the distance as they, too, made their way downstairs.

Loneliness swelled in Lizzie's chest once more and she heaved a sigh, turning onto her side and wrapping her hands around her stomach. "It's just you and me, baby."

Beneath her hands there was a small nudge, as if her child sensed her loneliness and was trying to comfort her. Lizzie rested her head against her damp pillow, feeling utterly drained.

Not for the first time in her life, she wondered what it was like to be a boy.

Misery seemed to slow down time, and then speed it up again, and so when there was finally a gentle rap at the door night had already crept in, and the only light in the bedroom was provided by her small, girlish nightlight. "Elizabeth?" Dotty popped her head in. "Eliza—Lizzie, what's the matter?"

"Hey Mum." Lizzie sat up and wiped at her red eyes. She ran her hand under her nose, sniffling.

Instantly Dotty was sitting down beside her, wrapping both arms around her and allowing Lizzie to lean into her chest. The younger Mundy child hiccupped and all but threw herself into her mother's lap. "I—I don't know what's wrong! And that's the scariest thing! I just…I'm just being a typical weepy woman." She stared at the floor in frustration even as Dotty ran her hand through her hair.

"Oh, dearest," Dotty clucked her tongue, "in case you've forgotten, you have a little, wriggling person growing inside of you. That is more cause for distress than most things, I should think."

Lizzie managed a faint smile. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear before speaking again. "When you were pregnant with me and 'rence…did Dad…understand?"

"Understand? Of course not! 'specially not with Junior, y'know." Dotty shook her head as she spoke. "You were our second time around, so it was a bit easier. But nevertheless, no, he didn't truly understand."

"Did you ever feel….alone?"

"Oh yes." Dotty's expression darkened momentarily. "It's especially scary, you know, the first time. Elizabeth…is everything all right between you and Jack?"

"Ye—no. No, it's not." Lizzie swallowed hard, and when she did it felt like there were a thousand sharp knifes scraping the inside of her throat. "I just….when Jack and I got married, everything was supposed to be happily ever after. And it was, for a few years. But when Jack got promoted—I—he—it just—" the faster she said, she supposed, the easier it would be. "It just seems that sometimes he looks at me, but doesn't see me. He looks right through me, like I'm not there. And it hurts even more because he loved me—he's _supposed_ to love me. I—I don't know what I did _wrong_." She glared down at her dishpan hands, feeling useless and outdated.

Dotty continued to stroke her long hair, expression sympathetic. "Oh, sweetheart," she sighed, "you and Jack are going through a bit of rough patch right now. It's perfectly natural. You've been married, what, seven years? And with a baby on the way…now, you listen to me, Elizabeth Jeanette, and you listen to me well and good. You have been nothing but a good, faithful wife to that man, and if he still doesn't think he has to give you the respect you deserve, well, we'll just have to get Philippe to poison his tea."

The last bit was so out-of-place and unexpected that Lizzie burst out laughing. "Mother!"

"Not enough to kill him," Dotty assured her hastily, "just enough to wipe that smug look off of his face."

Lizzie buried her face into Dotty's shoulder to fight her giggles, and her mother eventually drew her out, cupping Lizzie's chin in her hand. "It may not be happily ever after…" she murmured, tucking a stray strand of Lizzie's hair behind her ear for her, "but no one ever said it was ever after, now did they?"

**…**

Spy's list of mythical creatures was a relatively long one, as he was a practical, tactical man with little time for superstition.

That being said, it was satisfying to see that at least one mythical creature did exist:

The exceedingly rare Sniperiotis Suitandtiecus.

Sniper tugged at his black bow tie and grumbled about being collared like a dog while they stepped up to join the line entering the new factory. Some way or another, the Aussie had managed to clean himself up for the event, and he looked very dapper indeed—or he would have, if not for his attitude about the whole affair. He tugged at his sleeves in irritation. "I look ridiculous!"

"You look like an adult, now hush!"

Sniper glanced towards Spy. The Frenchman had finally put his disguise kit to proper use, and instead of the skinny Spy, it was the burly Soldier who smirked back at him. Sniper shuddered. "Stop that!"

Spy bit the inside of his cheek and looked forward, assuming the iron-eyed look Soldier was known for. Sniper relaxed a bit. "Still don't see why ya chose Sol, of all people."

"Soldier, thanks in part to his 'elmet and knack for acting like a bull in a ballet, will not be as immediately recognizable to our enemies, especially in a refined setting such as this."

"They ain't our enemies yet, spook."

"Yet."

Sniper huffed and looked forward. Jack, being an employee, had been granted instant access into the party, while other, less important invitees (such as themselves) had to wait in line. Sniper's eyes roved over the factory, taking in every spire and chimney column in contempt. His sweaty hands fingered the ticket in his pocket, dampening it a bit. "Wot's the plan?"

"I go in looking for intel, you….try not to embarrass yourself."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah. I loike this plan. Simple, easy ta remember."

Spy chuckled, and through Soldier's mouth it became a guffaw. "Excellent. Let me do all the talking, will you?"

They made past security without a problem, and it was only when they had entered the mezzanine that Spy flung his arm out, causing Sniper to walk right into him. Eyebrows arched, Spy's gaze swept around the large entrance hall. "Well…they certainly spared no expense."

Sniper followed his eyes and swallowed hard, feeling more out-of-sorts than ever. He'd never been surrounded by so much, well…

Fanciness.

The sense of entrapment created by the gray walls surrounding him was eased by the bright, friendly lights, and the gentle hum of classical music being struck up in the distance. Men in suits and women in dresses cascaded around them, laughing and chattering and helping themselves to the wine and hors d'œuvre being served on silver platters from snooty-looking waiters. Towards the back of the room two staircases swept upstairs to meet at a single landing. And on that landing stood a single man, his hands folded behind his back as he surveyed the happenings below.

"Jack," Sniper waved his arm to get his brother-in-law's attention, and when Jack finally made it over he gestured to the man on the landing, "who's that bloke?"

"That," Jack's nostrils flared, "is Giancarlo Serafini. He's CEO of Gray Industries."

"The ex-member of the Mafi—oomph!"

Jack dug his elbow into Sniper's side, arching his eyebrows as he withdrew. "Giancarlo isn't one to suffer fools lightly." He warned before slipping off into the party once more.

"Mafia?" Spy repeated slowly. "Ex-member, did you say?"

"Yeah. Rumors are he got kicked out."

"For not following orders?"

"For bein' too vicious."

Sniper allowed the implication to hang in the air as Spy squinted up at Giancarlo. As he watched, Bianca Mann appeared beside him, looking breathtaking in a shimmering red gown. The look in her eyes was distant and disinterested when she looked over the crowd, but it warmed considerably when Giancarlo snaked his arm around hers. Spy tut-tutted. "My apologizes, Lawrence—it seems the girl of your dreams 'as found another." When there was no answer, Spy glanced around, only to see that Sniper wasn't beside him. "Lawrence? Lawre—oh."

Naturally, Sniper had found the open bar, and was just slamming cash down on the counter when Spy meandered over to him. The disguised Frenchman watched, eyebrows arched, as the bartender set to making drinks. "I see you've found your optimal lookout position for this evening—"

He was cut off by the sound of fading music and the screech of a microphone being tapped. Those in attendance grimaced and shuddered at the mechanical squeal, and Giancarlo managed a faint smile of apology. "Mi scusi, signore e signori. Buona sera, and welcome to the grand opening of Gray Industries' seventh factory!"

He waited for the applause to die down before resuming, "Tonight, we eat, we drink, and we enjoy each other's fine company." Unsubtly, he cast a glance towards Bianca. "Throughout the night, we will be showcasing some of GI's latest and greatest projects, as well as what the future holds! Please, on the behalf of the company, enjoy yourselves!"

There was more scattered applause, and finally Giancarlo and Bianca consented to drifting down the stairs, arm-in-arm. From across the room Spy sat up a little on a bar stool, trying to get a better glimpse of this Giancarlo Serafini.

He certainly looked more like an ex-member of the Mafia than a high-powered CEO. Giancarlo was tall, almost as tall as Sniper, and just as broad-shouldered as Jack. His hair was thick and dark, his neatly-trimmed beard sprinkled with gray, somehow suggesting experience rather than old age. His tanned skin was marred with many small, slight scars, but his walk was proud and confident. The aura around him was one of grim control, only heightened by the humorless expression he wore as he greeted guests.

This was not a man, Spy decided, that he would want for an enemy.

"I'm going 'unting for intel," he murmured. "Stay 'ere, and don't do anything too stupid."

Sniper gave him a thumbs up and turned back to his fixed drink, watching out of the corner of his eye as Spy left to razzle-dazzle the crowd. For a few minutes he sat alone, nursing his drink and trying to ignore the suffocating feeling of being in a suit. He hated formal wear; it always reminded him of going to church early on Sunday mornings, and being repeatedly told not to twitch or fidget during the sermon. Everything about this stupid penguin suit was making him feeling trapped, and he tugged at his collar a bit, trying to breathe.

"Wife tied it too tight, huh?"

Sniper jumped at the voice behind him and glanced over his shoulder, heart sinking somewhere into his small intestine when he realized who was behind him. "Nah, mate, a friend of mine did. Think he was tryin' ta suffocate me, though."

Blake snorted derisively before hopping onto the barstool beside Sniper. "Mind if I join you? The whole party atmosphere can get a bit," he paused, searching for the right word.

"Annoying?"

"Tiresome. I was going to say tiresome." He signaled for the bartender and ordered a beer before turning back to Sniper, grinning. "But it's nice to see a kindred spirit."

"Hmm." Sniper sipped at his drink while he considered a response. It seemed as though Blake didn't recognize him from earlier, and now that he was seeing the boy up-close, he was beginning to think there wasn't any real reason to worry about this one.

He looked to be a few years older than Scout, with unkempt, shaggy blonde hair and bright, searching green eyes. His stance was slumped, his grin lopsided, and his obnoxious purple bowtie a little askew. Blake reached up, fiddled with his tie, and then grinned at Sniper. "So, what brings you to this den of thieves and whores?"

"Brother-in-law," Sniper grunted, "you?"

"Work."

Blake's smile grew more cynical as Sniper spat out his beer, turning to him in amazement. "You work here, kid?"

"Yeah!"

"Yer, wot, twenty-three?"

"Twenty-eight, thank you." Blake replied, "I graduated top of my class. Early."

Sniper scoffed as he lifted his drink to his lips again. "What'd ya major in, mopping the floors?"

"Engineering."

This time Sniper spat his drink all over Blake, who paused before wiping the liquid from his face and looking down at his suit with a sigh. "I was gonna return this tomorrow too."

"Sorry." Sniper handed him a few napkins, sizing him up once more. "Yer an Engie?"

"Engie?" Blake grinned. "That's the best nickname I've ever heard for it! Yeah, I'm an Engie. Junior one, though. Mostly I do the grunt work. Haven't really had a chance to design anything of my own yet. And yourself?"

"Bushman," Sniper replied with pride.

"Whoa, you mean like out in the bush with kangaroos and crocs and stuff? Wow!"

Sniper beamed, a little pleased with himself. Which was unusual. For him. "It's a good livin'."

"If I buy you a few more drinks, can I hear about the Outback?" Blake asked, expression eager and eyes blazing with delight.

Sniper shrugged. "Sure. The name's Lawrence, by the way. Lawrence Mundy." He offered his hand and Blake took it enthusiastically.

"Blake Porter. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mister Lawrence!"

"Mundy works fine too, lad—"

"Excuse me, a few more rounds for myself and Mister Lawrence!" Blake waved the bartender over, a wad of bills clutched in his fist.

Sniper allowed himself to relax a bit and smiled into his drink.

**…**

Meanwhile, Spy was doing what he did best.

He was razzle-dazzling the crowds.

He was hovering around a group of women, chatting them up even as his eyes slid around the mezzanine, looking for something—_anything_—out of the ordinary.

"America," one of the women cooed and leaned into him, "what's it like?"

Instinctively Spy took a step back. He grunted, as Soldier might have, and looked back to her. "It's the greatest country in the world, sweetheart. The ladies here are much sweeter, though." He turned his mouth up into a debonair smirk, and the normally unapproachable Soldier instantly melted several women's hearts. He was too busy zeroing in on a figure across the room to gloat, however. "Say, ladies, do you know much about my fellow American across the way there?"

The women followed his gaze and one of the younger ones, who had identified herself earlier as a secretary, piped up instantly: "Oh, that's Mister Delmond. He's new here—well, sort of. Mister Serafini has been talking business with him the past few months. He's only just come down to see the company in person for, what, two weeks, was it, Margaret?" She looked to her friend for confirmation before continuing: "Yes, two weeks. He's awfully nice. A bit too wrapped up in his own world, though." The girls giggled at some secret joke.

Spy straightened his tie. The BLU Engineer was chatting amicably with what looked to be a group of businessmen, and he was clearly describing something enthusiastically. "I see. I would like to see what he's working on."

Margaret flushed. "It's top-secret." She whispered shrilly.

Spy scoffed and glanced her way. "I make it my business to find out secrets." He winked and the girls fell into nervous titters.

"You can try if you like," one of the elders said in a serious tone, jerking her thumb towards the long, dark corridor at the end of the mezzanine. She arched her eyebrows up at Spy.

He eased up and grinned down at her. "Watch me succeed. So long, cupcakes."

He slid away from the group (hearing their mocking laughter in his ears) and effortlessly slid in and out of groups in the crowd, blending in as best he could. He'd learned that sometimes it was best to vanish when everyone was looking—because in truth, no one was. He reached the start of the corridor and cloaked, confident that he had gone undetected.

Across the room, Delmond stopped mid-speech and looked over his shoulder.

"Something the matter?" Giancarlo murmured as he stirred his drink.

"No," Delmond looked back to the Italian with the faintest of frowns. "Must've been my nerves acting up. These formal, crowded parties make me all twitchy."

Giancarlo grunted, eyes flickering to the corridor that led the workshop. "Blake has all the hidden cameras activated, sí?"

"I reckon so. Why? Y'all expectin' trouble?"

"Signor Delmond," Giancarlo smiled wanly, "I do not expect trouble. I merely prepare for it."

**…**

The sounds of the party were fading slowly, and Spy's hair stood on end. The roar of the crowd was dim and distant in this dark, seemingly abandoned hallway. He moved slowly, cautiously, pausing once or twice to allow his cloak to recharge moving on. There was a growing knot in his gut, one partially of nerves and of excitement.

This was what he was born to do; this was what he did better than anyone else, and every inch of his being hummed with eager yearning. He was a master Spy, after all.

He ducked in and out of rooms—most being uninteresting conference rooms—until he reached a long spiral staircase at the end of the corridor that descended into blackness.

He didn't hesitate.

His footfalls were soft against the metal stairway, and he only lightly touched the rail as he descended, trying not to fumble in the dark. Here, in the belly of the beast, were the workshops. As with upstairs, he drifted in and out of each room, examining each of GI's prototypes with little attention.

It was the last room that piqued his interest—because it was locked.

A scanner by the doorknob indicated that access was limited, and would require both a voice- and print-identification.

Spy clucked his tongue. Such trivial security measures.

An instant later the BLU Engineer's hand was given the green-light, and his rumbling voice stating his name allowed the door to click slightly. It slid open and Spy stepped inside, melting back into himself as he did so. He fumbled for the lights, and when the row of fluorescent beams kicked on overhead his jaw dropped.

Dell would have had a field day.

There were multiple long, low workbenches scattered with tools and blueprints. Posters and designs were slung across the walls, and everywhere Spy looked there were mounds and mounds of scrap metal, just begging to be bent and molded into shape.

Eyebrows arched, Spy drifted towards what looked to be a pile of discarded items lying on the floor. He crouched, scooping up a battered and scratched watch into his hand. "Hello," he murmured, turning the watch over and over in his hands, "what do you do?"

He decloaked momentarily, removed his watch, and placed the battered one on before pressing the small button on the side. Instantly a cool, trickling sensation overwhelmed him, running from his head to his feet as though someone were pouring a glass of water over him. He looked down at himself, surprised to see that he was perfectly invisible once more. After a few moments, however, the illusion flickered and dispelled.

Spy took off the faulty watch and placed his own back on. Rather than discarding the broken invisibility watch, however, he pocketed it. It was clear no one was going to miss it.

Turning around, Spy started towards the opposite end of the room, where hung a myriad of blueprints, all with drawings of what looked to be anthropomorphic machines, when something tucked into the farthest corner caught his eye.

It was a long, wide tube set into the wall, just big enough to hold a man. There wasn't much to it, save that it sparked with energy as Spy drew near. Cautiously, he inched towards it, trying to figure out just what the purpose of this contraption could be.

A blueprint hung precariously from the wall from one tack, and as Spy's eyes flickered over its contents he sucked in a sharp breath.

He took one more look around and fled.

**…**

"An' then—hic—an' then the professor says to me, "boy, you gotta shape up or ship out!"…like, nobody but you understands, Mister Lawrence, sir—hic—it's rough out there, bein' a genius no one can—hic—appreciate!"

Sniper patted Blake's shoulder sympathetically as the absolutely sloshed young man sank down to rest his chin on the bar. He picked at the label on his beer in melancholy. "All I'm askin' for is—is a bit—of respect! Is that so hard?" Blake looked to the older man with wide eyes.

Sniper shifted. "Yer young yet, Porter, yer gonna find yer way!"

"So—soon?"

"Absolutely!"

The blond sniffled and ran his hand under his nose. "Good." He hiccupped again.

Sniper tilted his head to the side. "Why's gettin' respect so important, lad?"

"Because," Blake straightened up and spoke with a sudden fierceness, "Because _nobody_—hic—loves a _nobody_."

The corners of Sniper's mouth tugged downwards slightly and he was about to set to fixing that point of view when a heavy hand clapped down so hard on his shoulder that he yelped in pain, twisting around to glare at Soldier. "Wot?"

"Time to go."

"But they haven't even brought out the cake yet!"

"We'll stop for ice cream on the way 'ome. We're leaving. _Now_."

"Wot about Jack?"

"He can find a ride! Lawrence, _come on_!"

Sniper glanced between Spy and Blake, who squinted up at Soldier's square-jawed face in a drunken haze. Hastily Sniper shoved a few more bills into Blake's hand. "That's fer cab money, ya got it?"

"Uh-huh," Blake sniffled again. "See ya around, Mister Lawrence."

Sniper nodded and followed Spy as he all but shoved his way through the crowd. "Mind tellin' me wot's going on, or are ya gonna keep actin' all mysterious?"

Spy shook his head. "When we're out of earshot, I'll—"

"And now ladies and gentlemen, the centerpiece of our evening!"

It was Bianca who had the microphone now, and from the stairwell she smiled benignly down at the crowd. They turned almost as one to face her, and Sniper looked to her even as Spy attempted to tug him away.

Bianca smiled serenely and tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear. "The pièce de résistance of Gray Industries! The automatons!"

She swept her hand out, and on cue a piece of the wall slid in and back, and out marched two rows of human-sized, featureless robots.

Human-sized, featureless robots that were armed to the figurative teeth.

Sniper felt Spy stiffen beside him and instinctively moved in front of the Frenchman. Around them the crowd murmured appreciatively, looking to Bianca as she stepped down the stairwell. "For centuries," she boomed, "we've lost husbands, brothers, and sons on the frontlines! They fight and die for us, but at an insurmountable cost! Well, Gray Industries has this to say: No more! We'll find a better soldier to wage our wars—no, we'll do better." She lowered momentarily, to a dark, throaty, almost seductive tone. She paused, knowing that she had her audience enthralled. "We'll _create_ the perfect soldier. Robots," Bianca swept her hand out towards the robots, beaming, "to fight our wars. No more having to sacrifice the men we love, no matter sleepless nights worrying about what horrors they might be facing! We'll lose bits and bolts rather than flesh and blood!"

There was an outbreak of wild applause. Bianca stood against the tumult of approval with a slight smile. "Of course, they are not _quite_ ready for battle yet. A few more years in development and testing, and of course we'll need backing by the government—but as a faithful employee of GI for almost ten years, I can say with assurance these are our greatest achievements! We're going to change the face of war….forever."

Finally Spy succeeded in pulling Sniper away from the display and outside into the cool night air. The Frenchman tugged at his collar, suddenly desperate for breath, while Sniper looked back inside. "Think you an' I are gonna be needin' ta dust up our resumes," he murmured glumly, "those robots are gonna put us out of a job."

"That is the least of our concerns," Spy snapped, tugging off his tie and deactivating his disguise. "Lawrence…_they have Respawn_."

At this revelation Sniper's gaze shot back to him, eyes widening in horror. "You serious?"

"As the plague." Spy rubbed his hands together, frowning fiercely. "The BLU Engineer must 'ave gotten the designs somehow..."

"But it's top-secret!"

"I know that," the Frenchman snapped, "which means one of two things are 'appening: Mann Co. is in cahoots with Gray Industries, or…"

"Or," Sniper said with a grim expression, "GI is lookin' ta take Mann Co. down from the inside out."

"A regular coup d'état," Spy murmured.

"So….if the latter…wot'll happen to us?"

"I don't know," Spy chewed the inside of his cheek, stomach churning, "I don't—"

The loud and all-too-familiar _pop-pop-pop!_ of igniting gunpowder sounded, and a split second later Spy found himself staring up at the night sky with an aching head and a heavy Australian lying on top of him. A brilliant flash of light exploded overhead and Spy sighed in mixed relief and exasperation. "Fireworks. It's just fireworks, Lawrence, get off of me!"

Sheepishly Sniper scrambled up off of Spy and helped him to his feet. The Frenchman scowled and wiped at his suit. "You got dust on it!"

"Sorry." Sniper breathed out, wincing as more fireworks whistled and boomed overhead.

"It's all right." Spy took a deep, steadying breath. "Let's get out of 'ere. We won't find out much more 'ere. When we get back to Teufort I'll do a bit of digging into Mann Co.'s financial records…"

"You can do that?"

"_Spy_."

"Oh. Roight."

They made it back to the Mundymobile in one piece, and the drive home was silent and tense. Spy kept glaring out the window at the dusty terrain, drumming his fingers on his knees. His mind was whirring at a mile a minute, shifting through every option and possibility that could connect GI and Mann Co. His stomach churned at the notions running through his head, and with every nerve on high-alert he jumped when the Mundymobile began to drift slightly. "What is it? What's 'appening?"

Sniper glanced at him and grinned as he made the complete turn into an ice cream parlor. "You promised me ice cream."

It was so offbeat and sudden and silly that all dark thoughts were instantly dispelled from Spy's mind. He burst out laughing, and graciously consented to stopping for ice cream.

**…**

"All in all," Bianca draped both arms around Giancarlo's neck, leaning forward to rest her chin on his head, "that could have gone a lot worse."

Her lover was seated at a giant computer, with several screens running. He was scanning the security footage from the evening with pursed lips. When Giancarlo didn't reply, she nudged him. "Excuse me, Signor Personality, what's so fascinating about a bunch of dolled-up idiots?"

"We had a break-in."

Instantly Bianca froze, face draining of color. "That's impossible."

"Improbable," Giancarlo corrected. He leaned forward, double-tapped a key, and froze a screen in the upper-left hand corner. "Hidden camera in Workroom One found this stronzo."

Bianca cursed under her breath. "Recognize him?"

"No, and he doesn't appear anywhere else in the footage for the evening. He disappears about three minutes in, and that's it." Giancarlo leaned forward, squinting at the shaky footage and trying to get a clear view of the man's profile.

"Did he take anything?"

"A watch."

Bianca pressed her lips together and strutted over to the intercom on the wall. She pressed the button on it and spoke in a quick, crisp tone, "Mister Delmond, if you would join us upstairs."

The Texan appeared about forty seconds later, wiping his stained face with his sleeve as he removed his goggles. "Y'all needed me?"

"There was a thief in Workroom One this evening during the party. He took one of your discarded Invis-watches." Bianca gestured for Giancarlo to play the footage again and he complied.

The Engineer watched, first with disbelief, and then with horror as the man onscreen disappeared into all-too-familiar smoke wisps. "Looks like y'all got a Spah 'round here…"

"Spy?" Bianca repeated. "As in…?"

"The RED Spy." Engineer cursed and slammed his hand down on the desk. "I knew it! I thought I saw someone familiar during the party! The bastard slipped right under my nose!"

"Well," Giancarlo drawled, "he is a Spy."

The Italian swung around in his seat in order to arch his eyebrows at the seething Engineer. Giancarlo made a steeple with his fingers. "Fix. This."

Engineer shoved past him, eyes darting over the footage of the party. "Wait a tick—there! The Soldier! Dammit, dammit, dammit!" He scratched at his beard in irritation as he leaned in. "And….who's he talkin' to there?"

"And what's Blake doing with them?" Bianca pinched the bridge of her nose before slamming her thumb against the intercom button once more. "BLAKE! GET UP HERE!"

The blond appeared faster than anyone thought possible; a wet towel pressed his head. He grimaced. "Can you keep it down, Bia? Some of us are trying to work."

She snapped her fingers and he winced again, removing his goggles to reveal his bloodshot eyes. Bianca pointed to the screen Engineer was currently examining. "Who was it you were talking to tonight?"

Blake followed her gaze curiously, and his eyes lit up. "That's Mister Lawrence! Lawrence, ah, Moon-day." He beamed, and then the smile faltered. "Why? Is he in trouble?"

"The Sniper!" Engineer hissed, hand balling into a fist in fury. "Damn REDs, both of 'em!"

"Bianca—" Giancarlo didn't bother looking her way as he spoke "—I need you to hack into the database for Reliable Excavation and Demolition and get the files on both these men. I want to know what they're doing here. I want to know what they were looking for."

Bianca started. "That could take hours!"

"Then you had best get started."

She scowled and left for her private office. Giancarlo leaned forward, stroking his beard and thinking hard. "Gray called me this afternoon. Helen was….disinclined to acquiesce to his request."

"She couldn't have gotten these two clowns here in that time." Engineer snarled, still fuming that his rivals had slipped past him unnoticed.

"No—"

"Mister Lawrence is on vacation," Blake piped up, "he told me so."

"That still doesn't solve the Spy problem," Giancarlo murmured. "If he could get in here once, he could do it again with ease."

Engineer glanced at him and nodded. "He's a tricky bastard."

Blake edged towards the pair, eyes wide. "What are you….going to do?"

Giancarlo's pulse quickened as he replied: "We're going to find him. We're going to extract everything we can from him. And then we're going to kill him."

* * *

It's Mann vs. Machine time...almost.

Up next: 'There was hefty thud on the table and Sniper looked up sharply, face paling when he saw his rifle resting there. His gaze moved up into his father's furious eyes and he cringed a bit. "Dad...I can explain."'


	15. What Stays And What Fades

Look! Look! I updated on time! Hooray!

I liked this chapter, so hopefully you guys like it too. :3

* * *

_**Chapter Fourteen: What Stays and What Fades**_

"YOU LEFT ME BEHIND!"

"With good reason." Sniper held up his hands innocently. "Who knew Phil was allergic to chocolate?"

This time, surprisingly enough, Sniper wasn't lying to Jack's face—several bites into his double-dipped death-by-chocolate ice cream, Spy's tongue had started to swell and his throat had constricted. It did make a good excuse for being home from the party early, even if Spy had nearly blown-up like a balloon in the process.

The Frenchman was now sitting next to Sniper at the kitchen table, nursing a glass of carrot juice (Dotty's own home remedy) and poking at his slightly-swollen face behind his mask. He glared at Jack before sipping at his concoction. "My apologies for inconveniencing you. Believe me when I say it was not the most pleasant experience I've ever 'ad either."

Jack seethed, and what about to retort when Dotty poked her head around the corner. "Lawrence? Your father needs some help outside, be a dear and assist him, would you? And Jack, I think you left your suit jacket in the truck. Why don't you go get it so I can wash it for you?"

"All roight," Sniper stood and walked out, Jack on his heels.

Dotty looked to Spy with a bright expression. "And how are you feeling this morning, Philippe?"

"Fine, Madame Mundy, thank you." Spy sipped at his juice and grimaced at the taste. "Much better than last night, believe me."

Dotty nodded. "If you need anything, just holler, dear."

Spy downed the last of his juice, shuddered, and stood. "I can assist Lawrence—"

"Ah-ah-ah," Dotty wagged her finger and by some mystical motherly force Spy plopped himself back into his seat. "You sit right there, mister."

"But—"

"_Sit_."

Spy breathed out through his nose in frustration. "Bien."

"If you want to help, you can come assist me in the kitchen. I could use a sous chef."

Begrudgingly, Spy stood once more and followed her into the kitchen, where his knife skills were promptly put to good use—against vegetables.

**…**

Still fuming, Jack slammed the door of Senior's truck shut, suit jacket draped over his arm. Having to call Lizzie's parents to come and pick him up from the party like it was a secondary school dance had been absolutely humiliating.

Oh, he was going to get Larry back for this one.

He straightened up, glaring at Larry's van and considering how hard it would be to slash those heavy-duty tires. Too heavy, he reckoned before scowling.

And that camper van was too beat-up and run-down to belong to any doctor.

Jack strode over to the door of the van and tugged it open, glancing around discreetly before stepping inside.

**…**

"Dad?" Sniper stepped around the pile of chopped wood, axe in hand. "Dad? Mum said ya needed me—"

"Junior!"

The call came from the shed, and Lawrence followed the sound, nudging the door to the shed open with his foot. "Dad? Did ya need help?"

"Yeah." Lawrence Sr. leaned back in his seat slightly, drawing his whittling knife across a block of wood. "Get that cloth from the back shelf."

Puzzled, Sniper did as requested, putting the ax safely in a corner before inching around the mess of the shed. He stood on tip-toes, grabbed a rag from the top shelf, and turned around, handing it to his father.

Lawrence Sr. blew a few wood shavings off of the block, eying whatever he was making with one eye shut before nodding towards the spare chair across from him. "Sit, boy. Join me."

Sniper sat down slowly, picking up a spare knife and block of wood. He thought for a moment, studying the objects in his hands, before beginning to whittle the corners slowly.

The two Mundys sat in silence for a few minutes before Senior cleared his throat. "How's everything?"

"Uh—good. Good. Good."

"Keepin' healthy?"

"Yep."

"Got a girl?"

"DAD!"

"What? You're a grown man, you should be settling down by now!"

"Dad," Sniper sighed, "I know. I've heard this lecture before. I just….haven't met the roight girl yet."

"Have you been looking?" Peering over his glasses at his son, Lawrence Sr. paused in his whittling.

"Yes, Dad! But look at me! I'm not what a girl wants! Never have, never will be!" Sniper exhaled loudly through his nose. "There's nothing I can change about that! I'm not good-looking loike Jack or smart loike Phil! I'm jus'….a nobody. And _nobody _loves a _nobody_."

Lawrence Sr. sighed and set aside his tools, adjusting his glasses. He leaned forward, clasped his hands together, and thought for a long time. Finally he spoke, "Junior, you know how your mother and I met?"

A corner of Sniper's mouth twitched upwards. "You were visiting a bar late one night."

"And it was crowded and smelly and full of drunks—"

"And there was Mum, lookin' loike a daisy among weeds."

"Bein' choked by 'em too."

"Uh-huh. And you pushed your way through the crowds, took her by the hand, and said—"

"—'What did I tell you about sneaking out of the house? Father is going to tan your hide when we get home!' I took her by the hand and pulled her out of there."

"But when ya got jus' outside, a big sailor man as drunk as a skunk tried to feel Mum up."

"So like any good big brother, I turned around and punched him dead in the jaw. Only the bastard was a lot tougher and drunker than I thought. And he didn't go down."

"Nope. And the next thing you knew, you were wakin' up in the hospital wif Mum sittin' next ta ya. You'd been talkin' in yer sleep—or maybe it was the painkillers—'bout rainbow armadillos and flyin' snakes. She thought it was hilarious."

"And when she told me that, I knew right then and there I was going to marry that girl. You see, Lawrence, it's not about how smart ya or how handsome ya are or how brave ya are. It's about the one that knows you're a bleedin' idiot, but sticks with you anyway."

Sniper glanced up at his father, smile soft. "Thanks Dad," he murmured, rubbing the blade along the soft wood. "I'll keep that in mind."

"You're a good man, Junior. Those girls don't know what they're missing." Lawrence Sr. leaned over and squeezed his son's shoulder gently.

Sniper grinned, blushing faintly, and pulled his hat over his head. "_Dad_!"

"What? You're my bleeding likeness, you gotta make me proud!" Lawrence Sr. leaned over and gave him an affectionate punch on the shoulder.

"I will Dad. I promise."

They trailed off into silence once more, although this time the silence was far more comfortable and relaxed. For a time only the sound of blades scraping across wood and the softs breaths that sent wood curls tumbling to the ground in a pile. A small smile was coming to Sniper's face as his wood block evolved into something more concrete, and he was about to point out his in-progress creation to his father with pride when there was a loud knock on the door.

The younger Mundy started to rise, but his father shooed him back into his seat. He stood, old bones creaking, and looked towards the door. "Yeah? Who is it?"

"Jack. Erm, I got something to show you, Dad." Jack's voice rumbled from outside, setting Sniper's teeth on edge.

"Can it wait?"

"No. It's important."

Lawrence Sr. grumbled under his breath and set his tools aside, excusing himself before stepping outside.

The murmurs of both Jack and his father began instantly, but Sniper was able to drown them out for the most part, refocusing on the wood in his hands. His knife slid over in lovingly, and inwardly he marveled at the ability to create something from nothing. The wood was beginning to take on a narrowed shape at one end, and he supposed a little toy crocodile would make a nice addition to Lizzie's baby's room.

The door to the shed opened and closed once more, but Sniper didn't bother to look his father's way, still admiring his handiwork. "Hey Dad—"

There was a hefty thud on the table and Sniper looked up sharply, face paling when he saw his rifle resting there.

His gaze moved up into his father's furious eyes and he cringed a bit, looking more like a naughty child than anything else. "Dad...I can explain."

"Oh? Can you?"

The ice seeped out of his father's tone, chilling Sniper to the bone and freezing his mind solid. He gasped, grasping wildly for an explanation. Helplessly he looked to his father, cringing back at the cold look in his eyes.

"You lied to me, Junior."

"I—"

"You lied to me, and you lied to your mother. I should've known. My son's no doctor…just a crazed gunman."

Disappointment trickled into Lawrence Sr.'s icy tone and finally Sniper snapped to attention, hot fury coiling in his chest, dispelling the chilled mist of panic. He straightened, fists clenched. "How many times do I have to tell ya, Dad?! M'not a crazed gunman. I'm an assass—"

Too late, he realized his slip. A growl left his father and Sniper's fists relaxed hopelessly.

"—in." He finished lamely. "M'not a crazed gunman, I'm an assassin. And the difference is, one is a job—" he took a deep breath "—and the other is mental sickness." With the careful, measured movements of a wounded animal he leaned over, picked up his rifle, and held it to his chest in a protective fashion. His blazing blue eyes stayed level on his father's. "Who told you?"

He didn't need answer, though. It was apparent as Jack entered the shed just who had ratted him out to his father.

Now, Lawrence Mundy Jr. had spent twenty years alone in the Outback. And in those twenty years, he had developed a system of rules that set him apart from the ruthless thugs that wandered the desert_. Be polite_. _Be efficient_. _Have a plan to kill everyone you meet_. He had lived and abode by those rules, established his very existence around them.

It was in that moment, however, that he forgot to be polite. He forgot to be efficient. But he did have a plan to kill.

**…**

Spy admired his neat little pile of carrot slices before scooping them up gently and plopping them into the boiling water. He breathed in the scent of warm soup, allowing the vapors to curl around his face. "Mmmm. This smells heavenly."

"Well, one must try." Dotty smiled softly as she shooed Lizzie away from the poorly-peeled potatoes. She took over the job while Lizzie retreated to the table, huffing slightly in embarrassment. "Thank you for all your help, Philippe."

"It's no trouble," the Frenchman assured her, "I quite enjoy it, actually. It's a nice change of pace." He admired the simmering soup. "It's quite peaceful—"

"YOU DAMN BLOODY SON OF A BITCH!"

He'd spoken too soon.

Instantly he and Dotty were out the door, both taking long, hurried strides into the backyard, where Jack and Sniper were rolling around on the ground, both covered in dirt and bruises.

Spy darted forward and grabbed Sniper by the shoulders, cursing him out in French and hauling him up off of Jack. Jack, meanwhile, scrambled up and leaped the pair, only for Lawrence Sr. to grab him by the midriff, all the while bellowing at the top of his lungs.

"YOU'RE INSANE!"

"YOU'RE A SLIMY, STINKING BASTARD!"

"YOU'RE A DAMN PYSCHOPATH!"

"I'M GONNA USE YER GUTS FER GARTERS!" Sniper grappled forward, Spy digging his heels into the ground and yowling at Sniper to calm down. The Aussie had eyes and ears only for Jack, though—save for when Lizzie stepped in front of her husband. She spread her arms out, expression cold, and snarled, "That's enough."

Sniper froze in his tracks. He went limp in Spy's grasp, panting. His gaze swept from Lizzie's cold, hardened expression to his father's sweaty, red-faced mien, to Jack's darkening look, and finally to his mother. Dotty stood to the side, knotting her apron through her fingers. Tears were pricking the corners of her eyes, and when she met her son's eyes she tried to smile, although it became wobbly and strained the longer he maintained eye contact.

Shame and revulsion filled him from the bottom up. He looked down at the ground, breathing hard and fast, before shoving Spy off of him. He spun on his heel and broke into a sprint—he was doing the same thing he'd done years ago, running as far and as fast as he could from the churning, roiling sensation in his stomach, out into the wilderness, out where he would be safe.

And, more importantly, alone.

**…**

"LAWRENCE, _WAIT_!"

Spy tore after Sniper, abandoning the Mundy family to its own devices. Lawrence Sr. growled low under his breath, muttering inaudibly before limping off into his shed, slamming the door shut. Dotty rubbed at her misty eyes and stepped back into the house, saying something about the soup.

Breathing hard, Lizzie spun on her heel to glare at Jack. "Very mature, Jack."

"Why are you yelling at me? Your brother is the murderer, Liz!"

Lizzie closed her eyes and took a deep breath before continuing, "He's not a murderer. He's an assassin. There's a difference."

"Yeah." Jack wiped at his bloody lip with his mouth. "He gets paid for what he does."

Lizzie reopened her eyes, maintaining that air of cool detachment that only a truly furious woman could harness. "He's still my brother, and I love him, no matter what. The same cannot be said for _you_."

Jack looked as though he were about to retort, but instead he spat a wad of bloody spittle onto the ground and stomped off, muttering about heading into a town for a drink.

Lizzie held her composure until Jack was out of eyesight, and even when she heard the squeal of tires in the driveway she hastily wiped away her tears.

**…**

The van was gone.

That was the first thing Dotty noticed when she reentered the house and glanced out the window. The van was gone, and her son with it. There was a leaden worry in her stomach, but it eased as she realized that Lawrence wasn't alone this time—there was no doubt in her mind that Philippe had gone with him.

Sighing, she wiped her sweaty hands on her apron. It was the same pattern he'd gone through as a teenager—there would be a huge fight between himself and his father, Lawrence would disappear for a few days, and then reappear, covered from foot-to-toe in dirt and nursing some self-sustained injury.

Her boy was resilience personified, and this time he had back-up in case of trouble.

That didn't stop her from a quick prayer, however.

She was about to turn away from the window when three movements in quick succession caught her eye—the first was Jack storming out to his car and driving off, the second was how his careening sedan nearly hit Christian's battered old truck as the truck rolled into the driveway, and the third was the loud blaring of a car horn as a tinted black car stopped just short of Christian's bumper.

The Aborigine climbed out of his truck, shaking his head at the retreating sedan. He strode up the driveway, hands tucked into his pockets, and grinned when Dotty opened the door to greet him. "Hey there, Momma Mundy!" He jerked his head back to the driveway. "What was all that about?"

"It's nothing, dear. Come in, come in, you must be hungry." Dotty stood back and allowed Christian to enter.

He sniffed the air eagerly as he stepped through the threshold. "Smells good! Is 'rence home?"

"You just missed him, I'm afraid."

"Ah, too bad. I was gonna ask him if he and Phil wanted to join me fer a barbie. D'you when he's gonna be back?"

"He and Phil are out for the day—" Dotty paused for an instant before adding "—but Lizzie is out back. Why don't you invite her over instead?"

Christian blinked, taken aback. "You sure?"

Dotty nodded. "She could use the distraction."

"Uh….all right, then." Christian scooted around Dotty and headed for the back, a strange smile on his face.

That smile was mimicked by Dotty as she made to close the door—only to find another man standing in her doorway, preparing to knock on the open door. "Well, today certainly is a busy one. How can I help you, young man?"

Giancarlo blinked, stunned at being addressed as a 'young man', before slowly lowering his fist away from the doorframe. "Buon giorno. I'm looking for a Philippe Vidal. I was told he could be found at this address."

Dotty took in his appearance—the crisp gray business suit, the rolled-back shoulders—before gently shaking her head. "I'm afraid he's not home."

"Oh. And what about Lawrence Mundy Junior?"

"He's not home either." Something flashed through Dotty's eyes and she prepared to close the door. "And they won't be back for several days."

"More's the pity," Giancarlo said as he drew an envelope out of the inside pocket. He glanced around in a clandestine fashion before passing the envelope off to Dotty. "It's strictly confidential information, signora, but you are sheltering a wanted man."

"What—"

"It's too open here. I included everything you will need to know. When Signor Vidal returns, please to be sure to give me a call. The name is Giancarlo Serafini. Here's my card." He flipped a business card out of his pocket and through his fingers, handing it to Dotty. "Good day." He doffed his fedora, turned on his heel, and walked back to the shiny black car idling in the driveway.

Dotty slammed the door shut behind him with a scowl. Instantly she tore open the envelope, pulling out the folded papers inside. She read through them hastily, expression going to from furious to curiously soft. When she reached the final page she didn't waste any time in tearing up papers into shred and shoving them into the fireplace.

The only thing criminal around here, she decided, was her husband's piss-poor attitude.

She went back to the kitchen, satisfied that her duty as a mother was done, while the words "**CONFIDENTIAL FILE**: _**PHILIPPE ELIE VIDAL**_" slowly burned to a crisp.

**…**

"So….I take it we resorted to Plan B." Blake twisted around in the shotgun seat to arch his eyebrows at Giancarlo.

The Italian slid into the back and slammed the car door shut. "Drive," he ordered of the Engineer, who nodded and pulled out of the driveway. Giancarlo's eyes flickered to Blake. "They weren't home."

"So Plan B it is, then. Now what?"

"Now—" Giancarlo pulled on a pair of black leather gloves as he spoke "—we wait."

"Wait? That sounds really boring." Blake spun to face the front again, sliding down into his seat.

"You know what also sounds really boring?" Giancarlo snapped. "_Filling out job applications_."

Engineer chuckled and Blake flinched, holding up his hands in a gesture of innocence. "Yeah, yeah, I heard ya."

**…**

"Lawrence, slow this abomination of a vehicle down!"

Sniper didn't question why or how Spy materialized in the passenger seat behind him. He'd learned not to question a lot of things about Spy. So instead he focused on the road, not caring that the speedometer was rapidly creeping up past eighty.

"Lawrence, slow down! You might kill someone—or worse, me!"

Ninety.

"Lawrence, listen to reason!"

Ninety-nine.

"I swear to God, Lawrence, if you do not slow this van down I WILL SAP IT!"  
The car came to a rapid, screeching halt and Spy—who had been sitting sideways in the passenger seat—yelped as his body collided with the dashboard, bruising his shoulder painfully. He cursed and rubbed at it, glaring up at Sniper from the floor of the car. "Thank you."

Sniper just glared at him before unbuckling and bolting from the Mundymobile. Grimacing, Spy sat up and followed him, still rubbing his shoulder. The Frenchman stood by the van as Sniper stormed off into the dusty, arid surroundings. The Aussie began to go in circles, growling and snarling and shouting obscenities into the blue sky. Spy slipped down to the ground and prepared himself for a long wait.

What he was not prepared for, however, was Sniper wheeling around and punching the closest thing to him—a eucalyptus tree. He punched it, again and again and again, until there was a loud, audible crack and Sniper howled with pain, finally collapsing to his knees.

Spy watched as Sniper shifted to rest his back against the offending tree, clutching at his hand. He waited a few more minutes before finally standing up, brushing himself off, and meandering over to the heavily-breathing Sniper.

The bushman kept his gaze averted as Spy drew near. "I'm a bloody disappointment," he murmured.

"Well—" Spy sat down crisscross beside him "—you are bloody." He crooked a finger, and Sniper held out his right hand. It was bloodied and steadily swelling, and when Spy poked at it experimentally Sniper hissed in pain.

"Broken" was the final verdict, and Sniper clutched his hand to his chest protectively. Drained, he closed his eyes and leaned up against the tree. Spy glanced up and clucked his tongue. "A pity. You didn't even make a dent in the tree."

"Shut up."

Spy glanced back to Sniper, noting his protective, defensive stance and the way his Adam's apple bobbed with each breath. He kept his mouth shut, and the only noise he made were the soft footfalls as he stood and left once more.

_Good_, Sniper thought bitterly when he heard Spy retreat. _Leave me alone. I'm better off alone._

Except that those soft footfalls came back, and stopped right in front of him. There was a heavy thud and Sniper jumped, opening his eyes to see Spy kneeling in front of him, rummaging through his first-aid kit. He produced a pair of tweezers and beckoned for Sniper's hand. Puzzled, the Aussie reached out, wincing as Spy began to pull little splintered pieces of wood from his hand.

Sniper tilted his head to the side as Spy examined his hand for hidden splinters. "Wot are you—"

"Shut up."

Snapping his mouth shut, Sniper watched as Spy tended to his broken hand. A faint hiss of pain escaped him as the Frenchman wiped his bloodied hand with a few alcohol wipes, and then carefully bandaged it up, sliding along a tongue depressor to act as a makeshift splint along his hand before wrapping it up. "There." Spy held up Sniper's hand, admiring his handiwork. "It's no work of a Medic, but it will do for now. Come on."

"No."

"_No_?"

"I ain't goin' back."

Spy fell backwards to sit on the ground, crossing his legs and resting his chin in his hands. "Because?"

"Because you saw the way they looked at me. You saw what I am to them. A murderer. A _psychopath_."

"Join the club." Spy shrugged. "Assassin is just a better word for hired thug, oui ou non?"

"Yeah, but…" Sniper's nostrils flared in frustration. "That's my family. And they hate me." His voice dropped in sorrow and he lowered his eyes to his broken hand.

"They don't 'ate you. They just worry about you."

Sniper continued to keep his gaze averted, and Spy rolled his eyes. "Lawrence, what makes you 'appy? More than anything in the world?"

"A prostitute from Bangkok."

Spy leaned over and smacked him on the head lightly. "I'm not playing games, you eediot!

"Snipin'. More than anything in the world, I love snipin'. I'm good at it—the best. It's my damn title."

"Then there you 'ave it. Why waste your life making other people happy when you could focus on yourself?"

"That's selfish, spook."

"Hmm. I suppose. But if you get too wrapped up in pleasing someone else, you'll just run yourself ragged. 'onestly, Lawrence, would you rather be miserable for the rest of your life, just to please your father, or contented with who you are and what you're doing, no matter what?"

Finally Sniper looked up, smile twisted. "When did you get so good at life advice?"

"Your mother 'ad a talk show on while we were cooking. Very informative."

Spy's deadly serious tone took Sniper off-guard and he managed to crack a smile. Spy grinned back at him and got to his feet. "Come along, Lawrence, before the only man in fifty miles who fully accepts your life choices leaves you behind." He started off, back to the Mundymobile, and it was then Sniper realized that his keys were dangling from the spook's hand.

"OI!" He scrambled up and ran after Spy. "THOSE ARE MINE!"

"I 'ave two functioning 'ands." Spy grinned as he clambered into the driver's seat. "Therefore, I drive."

Sniper grimaced as he reluctantly settled into the passenger seat. "Where are we goin'?"

The Mundymobile rumbled to life and Spy tested the gas pedal, inching the van forward. "I 'ave no idea."

**…**

The Blue Streak beer was set down with a heavy thud. Medic swallowed the remainder of the liquid in his mouth. He scratched his beard and glanced at the diary sitting undisturbed on the other side of the desk.

There was only one entry left.

It was time to face it.

* * *

Up next: "I know what 'ell is, Lawrence, and it's not fire and brimstone. It's screaming for 'elp in the middle of a crowd...and no one will listen."


	16. But Doctor, I Am Pagliacci

It's another game of "Guess The Reference!" Whoever gets this one gets two bonus points! Remember, kids, there will be a test at the end to see if you were paying attention.

Before we begin, I must add that one of the OCs mentioned does not belong to me-Tokyo Sunset graciously allowed me to borrow Lorraine for a bit. If you like my stuff, then I definitely recommend hers (it's better than mine, but shhhh you didn't hear that from me).

p.s.: Dear Australians, I sincerely hope I did not screw up your country. Love, Chaos

* * *

_**Chapter Fifteen: But Doctor, I Am Pagliacci**_

"Mmm!" Lizzie dipped her finger into the barbecue sauce and sampled it with a simper. "This is delicious!"

"Ought to be." Christian grinned. "It's my own secret recipe. Ah-ah-ah!" He swatted Lizzie's hand away as she went for more. "Save some for the meat, girl! Go set the table or something." He flipped the meat on the barbeque, tongue sticking out of his mouth slightly as he attempted to create the perfect steak.

Lizzie stuck her tongue out and flounced over to the weathered picnic table, laying out two plates and rubbing Kida behind the ears as the dog trotted over, tail wagging. She followed Lizzie into the house, licking her chops all the while.

Lizzie wagged her finger as she pulled a jug of lemonade from Christian's fridge. "Ah-ah. Nothing for you." She steeled her heart against Kida's pathetic whimpers and reentered the backyard. Both Kida and Lizzie sniffed the air, relishing the smell of steak sizzling through the air.

Christian came over to the table with a plate full of steaks. "Ta-da! A feast fit for a queen!"

He sat down and Lizzie joined him, eying the food. "It's not too raw, is it?"

Christian poked at the steak experimentally. "If it starts running, just throw a knife at it. But I'm pretty sure it's not."

"Pretty sure?"

"Well, you can never be sure of anything, can you?"

"Yeah," Lizzie sighed, smile faltering, "I guess not."

Christian paused in the middle cutting his steak, glancing back up at her. "What exactly happened back there?"

Lizzie rested her chin in her hands. "Jack and 'rence got into a fistfight...and then they both disappeared." Her hands came up to drag through her hair in exhaustion. "What am I going to do?"

"Leave 'em both?" Christian offered half-jokingly.

Lizzie cocked an eyebrow. "A pregnant woman off on her own in the wide, cruel world?"

"You can come live with me!" Christian spread his arms wide, grinning when Lizzie laughed. "A single pregnant white girl and a half-black bachelor livin' the same house? People would come from miles around just to see the sight!" He lowered his arms, still grinning.

Lizzie shook her head. "Don't tease, Chris."

"Liz, why don't you just leave him?"

"Because he's my husband! And he loves me—"

"People fall out of love."

Lizzie paled at Christian's words. "I suppose. But no one wants me—"

"Pretty, smart, funny girl like you?" Christian scoffed. He dipped his finger in the steak sauce and bopped Lizzie on the nose, leaving behind a splotch on her nose. "There. Now you're irresistible."

When he drew back, Lizzie was smiling again.

**…**

"I hope you're happy, Lawrence!"

"Not particularly."

Dotty leaned against the doorframe of the shed, glaring at her husband. The elder Lawrence Mundy was smoking a cigarette, staring at his son's half-finished crocodile in mixed frustration, fury, and sorrow.

Dotty walked into the shed and snatched the cigarette away, stomping it under her foot. She folded her arms over her chest, glaring down at her husband. "Why won't you just let the boy be, Lawrence?"

"How can you let him be?" Lawrence Sr. snapped. "Our son kills people for a living! Kills them in cold blood! We didn't raise a murderer! At least...I thought we didn't." He rubbed his hands together, looking very old.

Dotty reached over and rubbed his shoulders. "If you keep scaring him off, he's never going to come back. We'll lose him."

"We'll lose him anyway! It's a dangerous life he's leading! And one of these days, one of those contracts is going to fight back! A man isn't supposed to bury his son, Dorothy! I'm terrified that one day, we'll get the phone call or the government vehicle out front—" He buried his face into his hands.

Expression sympathetic, Dotty reached down, dipped her hand under his chin, and drew her husband's face back up to hers. "Then why don't you tell him that?"

"It's too late now." He exhaled in defeat. "He's gone."

"He'll be back."

"How can you be so sure?"

"He always comes back. No matter where he goes."

**…**

"Careful, boy, careful!"

Blake staggered over to the Engineer, the Texan's hefty toolbox in his hands. "What…the hell…do you have in here?" he grunted, gasping for breath as he dropped the heavy accessory to the ground. He nursed his sore, reddened fingers and looked to Engineer.

Delmond was sitting in a reclining office chair, IV tube pressed into his arm. As Bake watched, he injected a gold liquid in a syringe into the tube, flexing his arm as the drug was injected into his bloodstream. He hissed in pain and screwed his eyes shut.

"That's gonna mess you up something awful, Mister Delmond," Blake said softly, brushing his bangs out of his eyes.

"That's the price a man has to pay sometimes," Delmond replied evenly. He flexed his hand as the drug worked its wonders. In an hour or so he'd been up and active, mind blazing with numbers and figures and calculations to create a whole myriad of machines.

Such was the mysterious effect of Australium.

"Now—" Engineer opened one eye "—show me how to build a mini Sentry."

"But I did a whole bunch of mini Sentries yesterday!"

"Practice makes perfect. Now get! And don't cross the red wires with the blue wires this time—damn thing nearly took out my eye last night."

Blake huffed and nodded. He opened the toolbox and grabbed the Engineer's blueprints, preparing to practice the art of solving practical problems.

**…**

"Nuh-uh, we ain't stopping here."

"Well, why not?"

"Because we're roight next to a billabong!"

"A what?"

"Billabong."

"Speak English, please."

"I am speakin' English! It's a billabong!"

"Oh, you're speaking Australian again."

"I'm not speaking Australian, ya stupid blighter!"

"I cannot—_mate_—understand—_kangaroos_—your accent—_God save the Queen!_—mate."

The remark earned Spy a cuff upside the head, but his snorting laughter indicated it was worth it. He parked the Mundymobile and grinned at Sniper. "So, what exactly is a billabong?"

"It's a—it's a billabong!" Sniper frowned, trying to explain it. "It's just a lake!"

"That's the stupidest name for a lake I've ever 'eard," Spy retorted.

Sniper rolled his eyes. "We can't stay here!"

"Why not? This looks like a perfectly lovely spot!" Spy protested. He leaned out the window, admiring the lush, forest-like surroundings.

"Because ya don't know wot the hell is in that water," Sniper growled. "And whether it loikes human flesh."

Spy muttered something under his breath about "silly superstitious bastard" and climbed out of the van. Immediately his expensive Italian leather shoes sank into muck. He half-frowned, pulling his shoes out of the wet dirt with a squelching sound. "Ugh."

"There's drier land up higher." Sniper pointed to the south. "We can set up camp up there, if ya loike."

"What 'appened to 'we can't stay near the billabong, mate, mate, mate'?"

"I don't sound loike that!" Sniper scowled. "And this is an all roight spot, I suppose. So long as we don't go near the water." His voice took on a warning edge and he looked to Spy. "I'm dead serious about this, spook."

"We're in your territory." Spy held up his hands in a gesture of defeat. "I'll follow your lead."

The afternoon sun was high in the sky as Sniper led the way up out of the marshy area, towards higher, drier land. Spy watched, interested, as Sniper's bushman instincts came back into play. With his right hand out of commission, he kept his kukri in his left, taking careful, short steps, disturbing as little nature as possible. Spy followed him, his own nerves suddenly twitching.

They entered a clearing, where Sniper stamped the dusty ground and grunted in approval. "Here. You sure about this?"

"Quite. Why?"

"I dunno. Ya never struck me as the campin' type."

"First time for everything, yes? I'll go get the van." Spy's tone was oddly bright as he strode back off into the marsh.

Sniper watched him go, instincts humming at the thought of danger. His fingers curled around the hilt of his kukri.

What was the spook's ploy? He never acted this cheerful, this easy-going about anything. He'd always jeered at Sniper's Outback history, been skeptical of the beauty of the wilderness. What did he want? Bewildered, Sniper looked down to his broken hand.

_Is he trying to cheer me up?_

They had stopped at a general store on their way out to the middle of nowhere, where Spy had cheerfully lifted Sniper's wallet off of his person and bought several bags worth of groceries, shoving them into the back of the van and chattering about his purchases as Sniper had sat sullenly in the passenger seat. He'd proceeded to talk the entire drive, asking questions about the wildlife and teasing Sniper about his vast knowledge, drawing Sniper back out of his surly shell.

_Oh God….he's trying to cheer me up!_

The revelation was oddly touching, if also completely confusing. Sniper collapsed to the ground, sitting crisscrossed. His broken hand twanged and he grimaced, nursing it. What was he to Spy, he mused. More than teammate, most certainly, but did that make him a friend? Did the reclusive, sardonic Spy even have friends?

Well, Sniper thought to himself with a half-smile, if Spy did consider him a friend, he certainly had good taste.

The Mundymobile came roaring up through the trees with all the gracelessness of a rhino, and Sniper winced. "Careful! You'll scratch her!"

"Relax, relax." Spy rolled down the window and poked his head out, surveying the damage. "She's going to be fine."

"She ain't if ya don't treat her loike a precious gem!"

Spy turned to Sniper, eyebrows cocked. "She's an all-wheel drive camper van, Lawrence, I'm certain she can 'andle a little roughness." With that, he finished his ascent into the clearing and hopped out, looking rather pleased with himself.

"Now, we can build a fire, make dinner, open the beers, and help ourselves to some delicious hot shmoes—"

"They're call s'mores, spook. And why do you care, anyway?"

Spy paused as he opened the back of the van. "Well, one of us 'as to play the cheerful one, and since you've taken the role of sourpuss for the day, it doesn't leave me much choice, now does it? 'onestly, would you prefer if we both sat 'ere in sullen silence?"

"….no. But would feel like a bit more loike I was with ya, and not in the middle of the Body Snatchers." Sniper winced as he tried to move his hand. "Watching ya be all eager-beaver when jus' the other day we were doin' a bit of espionage work…feels a bit odd, that's all."

Spy considered his words. "You 'ave a point." He glanced up and around, studying their empty surroundings. "I just…don't get many chances to relax, Lawrence. Even when I'm supposed to be on vacation. But…I can see what you love about being out 'ere." He waved his hands around, indicating everywhere around them. "It's quiet. It's peaceful. And, strangely enough, I do not feel the constant pressure of 'aving to watch my back, and my words…and my face." He touched his balaclava, smile droll. "I do not get many chances to just be Philippe. Can you indulge me this much?"

Realization, or something close to it, dawned over Sniper. He nodded, and a few minutes went by in silence before he spoke again. "So that's yer real name, is it?"

"What?"

"Philippe."

"Oui, what did you think?" Spy glanced over his shoulder, slightly surprised.

"I thought ya were jus' giving me a fake name." Sniper admitted with a slight frown. "Seemed loike something you'd do."

Spy chewed the inside of his cheek as he considered his response. "True. But considering the hasty circumstances around my departure from Teufort, I was desperate to trust someone. And I trusted you." He shrugged. "So far, that 'as not proven to be a terrible decision."

"So far." Sniper echoed faintly. He stood, walked over to Spy, and stuck his hand out. "The name's Lawrence Mundy. Junior."

Spy rolled his eyes and accepted the proffered hand. "Philippe Vidal." He watched as Sniper's eyes brightened the inclusion of his last name, and the corners of his mouth turned upwards. He had not been Philippe Vidal to anyone in years. It felt…good. Relieving, almost, although he had been carrying a weight he didn't know how had until it was lifted off of him.

They shook firmly, and when they broke Spy gestured towards the trees surrounding them. "Why don't you go find some firewood? You're the expert on it."

"No problem, Phil."

The nickname slipped out unconsciously and Sniper froze on the spot. With an almost guilty air he looked back to Spy, silently apologizing.

Spy blinked slowly. "Well, are you going to get firewood or not?"

Sniper nodded, relieved, and disappeared into the bush.

Odd, Spy mused, a year and a half ago Sniper would have been the last person he trusted with his identity—never mind allow him to call him "Phil". The bushman had disgusted him at first, repelled him with his coarse, brutish manner and his apparent adversity to anything high-class. Then again, he supposed, he hadn't exactly been the pinnacle of camaraderie either. Sniper had proven himself to be reliable, and that was what counted.

Besides, Sniper had d taken a calculated risk himself, allowing a Spy into his home, around his family, where all sorts of nasty little secrets could be exposed. But Sniper had confidence in Spy—the least he could do was return the favor.

Lawrence Mundy Junior, Spy decided, was a good man…and a good friend.

So when five minutes passed and Sniper didn't return, he tried not to feel irritated. And when ten minutes passed, he tried not to feel worried. Fifteen minutes came and went without so much as a flash of Sniper between the trees and Spy got to his feet, stomach churning with horror. What if he'd fallen into a ditch? What if he'd been attacked by some predator, or bitten by a poisonous snake? What if danger had found them all the way out here—

"Phil!"

He jumped a mile and spun on his heel, staring at Sniper in relief. "There you are!"

"Come on, come see this!" Sniper dropped a bundle of sticks to the ground and gestured back towards the woods. "Come see wot I found!"

"What is it?" Spy switched back to his bored tone. "A pretty flower?"

Sniper sneered and pointed towards the woods. "Come on!"

Curiosity got the best of Spy and he followed Sniper deep into the trees, hands tucked into his pockets and an uninterested expression on his face. The Aussie took long, loping steps, following an invisible path into the wilderness, effortlessly swatting a buzzing insect out of the way as he did. The woods slowly gave way to sparse bushes, and the dirt beneath their shoes eased into hot sand.

Finally, they came to a large rock-face, weathered with age and time. Sniper grinned and swept his hand outwards. "Ta-da!"

"A great, big rock. Fascinating."

His dry tone made Sniper roll his eyes and he dropped to his knees. "S'not the rock, smartass. It's wot's under it." He pointed to a hole at the bottom of the rock-face, just big enough for a thin man to crawl through. Sniper gave Spy a Cheshire-Cat grin before shimmying into the hole. "Comin'?" He managed to call just as his boots vanished.

Spy crouched down, staring at the dark hole in horror. "If you think I'm following you into some hole in the earth that might be 'ome to God-knows-what, then you are stupider than I thought!"

"There ain't nothin' in here 'cept—AH JESUS CHRIST!"

"LAWRENCE!" Spy dove forward instantly, the upper half of his body sliding into the tunnel as Sniper burst out laughing.

"Heh. Gotcha."

"Bastard," Spy muttered, his soft voice echoing slightly. He lay still, trying to fight the feeling of entrapment. The walls of the tunnel were close, too close, and his heart skipped a beat as he imagined the sheer wall of rock above him. A faint, involuntary gasp escaped him and he gritted his teeth, overwhelmed with the urge to be sick.

"Phil? Ya okay?"

"I—I'm just not comfortable with tight spaces," he admitted in a low voice.

"It bottoms out into a cavern. C'mon, just a bit more, mate."

Now his heart was hammering against his ribcage and a line of sweat had broken over his brow. He shook his head, as best as he was able to give the small space, and began to back out. "No—no—this isn't going to work."

"Oh." There was a pause and Spy could all but see Sniper's face droop in disappointment. "All roight then. I suppose…" he trailed off again. "I suppose yer too chicken-shit fer this."

Spy had been in the process of squirming back out when Sniper's words caught him in his tracks. He looked up, glaring into the darkness. "What did you say?"

"Chicken-shit."

"_Call me that one more time_."

"Phil is a chicken-shit pansy!"

"OH, THAT IS IT!"

He propelled himself forward, scrambling further into the tunnel, only to find the ground giving way to a slope. He yelped as he slid downwards and braced for an impact—only to land on something soft and fleshy.

"Wotcher, spook!" Sniper greeted cheerfully, and then barked in pain when Spy's fist connected with his stomach.

"I am not chicken-shit." Spy huffed. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, but even when they did everything remained a dim outline. Sniper shifted underneath him, and then shoved him to the hard ground of the cavern. Spy made a noise of indignation, which only grew louder when Sniper began to pat around his person.

"Get off!"

"Need yer lighter."

"Well, you could have told me that in the first place—"

He jolted forward, only for his head to collide with the hard, bony surface that was Sniper's forehead. Both poised, professional assassins swore in pain and sat back, rubbing their foreheads. Sniper recovered first, reaching forward again.

"Aha! Got it!"

"Lawrence."

"Yeah?"

"That is _not_ my lighter."

Sniper withdrew his hand quickly with a mumbled apology as Spy dug into his suit, withdrawing his lighter. He flicked it on—and then immediately regretted it.

The cavern was just big enough for him to sit up in, and the taller Sniper was slouched slightly, the back of his head brushing the smooth roof.

Tight. It was too tight. Too tight, too cramped, and his breath hitched. He looked back to the entrance, envisioning it collapsing, trapping them in here for good—they could die in here and no one would ever know.

The meager light flickered and died as his lighter landed in the sand, his hands clawing at his chest as it constricted, an invisible rope wrapping around his ribcage and tightening, choking him. He scooted backwards, as far away from Sniper as possible, sweating bullets.

"Phil!" Sniper scooped up the fallen lighter and opened it again, ogling the stiffened Spy. "You okay?"

Spy forced himself to nod, sucking in shallow air through his nose.

"Breathe, mate, breathe!" Sniper scooted backwards to allow Spy more air. "It's gonna be okay, we're gonna be fine!"

"What if the entrance collapses?"

"It won't, and if it did, I'd dig us out with my bare hands."

"You could?"

"'Course, if the other option is you bein' the last person I see before I die."

The dry comment eased Spy up a little. His breathing became a bit more paced. "Oh yes?"

"Sure. I don't want yer ugly mug imprinted on my eyes as I head into the light." Sniper shuddered in mock disgust.

"Believe me," Spy retorted, swallowing the node in his throat, "I am not interested in comforting you as you die. Bedside manners do not become me."

"Ya would shoot me ta put me outta my misery."

"I would. Nothing I 'ate more than watching a long, slow death."

"Thanks, I think."

"You're quite welcome."

Sniper hesitated. "You okay?"

"Yes." Spy nodded and stopped hugging himself. "Yes, thank you."

"No problem. Now lay back."

Spy quirked an eyebrow. "I would 'ave picked a more romantic spot," he quipped, even as he settled down on his back, looking up at the smooth cave ceiling with hands folded on his stomach.

Sniper snorted. "Don't flatter yerself, I got better taste than that." He lay down beside Spy, lighter in hand. "Now shut up and look at this." He opened the flame once more, and Spy's eyes widened in surprise.

The rock above their heads was painted with all manners of designs, and the more he looked the more he saw. There was a small man wielding a staff, a turtle, several splayed hands, and many ribbons of colors. His eyes flickered over the painting, features softening.

Sniper watched his reaction, eyes eager. "Whatcha think?"

"It's a lot of trouble for some art."

"Come on, spook." Sniper clucked his tongue.

"All right, all right. What is it?"

"Not too sure." Sniper turned back to the paintings. "The Dreaming, maybe—"

"Dreaming?"

"Creation of the world. How we all got here, wot we're supposed to be doin' here."

Spy reached up, brushing his hand against one of the paintings, admiring the bright red paint against the dark rock. "Who painted it?"

"Dunno. Must've been a shaman of sorts." Sniper's eyes roved over the paintings admirably.

"What for?"

"Eh?"

"Why put them 'ere, where no one can find them?"

Sniper weighed the question carefully before shrugging. "Who knows? Maybe he wanted to paint something private, just for himself. Maybe this was his way of getting away from the world. Maybe…maybe he left it for us."

"That's a bit sentimental, don't you suppose?"

"Ya never know. S'a bad idea to make assumptions just because ya don't have the whole story, y'know?"

Spy considered Sniper and then the paintings, the look in his eyes faraway and almost regretful. "Yes," he murmured, "I know. Thank you for showing me this, Lawrence. It's a truly unique experience."

"That ain't sarcasm, is it?"

"For once, absolutely not."

**…**

There was something infectious about Australia.

Spy was slow to realize this, but when he did the infection spread from head to toe, gnawing into the very core of his soul. He felt like Tantalus, with the cure for his thirst and hunger always maddeningly just out of reach. He wanted more of this foreign, blisteringly hot land—he wanted to explore every inch of it, memorize its landscape as a man might memorize the scars and imperfections of his lover's body.

There was something about Australia that was utterly freeing, utterly satisfying to behold. The landscape was dashed with golds and reds and browns, giving off the feeling of passion, of blood, of a richness no mineral could match. It was a stark, beautiful contrast to the blues and greens of the French countryside, to the grays and yellows of Paris, and he loved every inch of it.

Out here, there was a sense of reckless freedom. Out here, away from prying eyes and suspicious faces, there was the notion that man was, if not infallible, than certainly mighty. Out here, possibilities were endless.

Spy hadn't felt this unburdened in _years_.

They spent the rest of the day exploring like children—climbing rock formations, studying flora and fauna, and getting their clothes absolutely dirty. There was even an impromptu stick-fight when Sniper dared to suggest that Spy's fencing abilities were all bluster. Needless to say, the bruises the Aussie nursed afterwards proved him wrong. In fact, the only thing that went wrong at all was Sniper finding a redback spider crawling up Spy's shoulder, upon which he bravely risked his life to pick up the impromptu little hitchhiker and fling it into the bush (or so he told Spy afterwards).

The evening found the two of them sitting side-by-side in front of a cheery campfire, eating sizzling sausages and roaring with laughter over some tale Sniper was recounting.

"And then," Sniper wiped a tear of mirth from his eye as he finished, "and then, she says ta me, 'we're all outta ice'!"

Spy nearly choked on his sausage. He set his dinner to the side, covering his hands with his mouth to contain his snorting laughter. He slipped down into the dirt, sides aching from laughter. Sniper pressed his fingers to his eyes, giggling loudly.

"All roight, all roight, next question," the Aussie breathed, "next question. Let's see…first time ya got laid."

Spy looked up at him, eyebrows arched. "You first."

"Why me?"

"Because I went first last time!"

The last question had been "Worst Contract Ever", and Sniper had nearly died laughing when Spy told him about his worst job, which included, but was not limited to, a car chase, an overly-helpful taxi driver, an obnoxious British agent, and a mortifying disguise as a belly-dancer from the Barbados. Now he looked to Sniper expectantly.

The bushman rubbed his chin. "I was twenty-one—"

Spy snorted loudly. "You were a virgin into your twenties?"

"Hey, there ain't no shame in it! I was twenty-one," he began anew, "and it was a bachelor party fer one of my fellow ranch-hands. One of 'em saved up enough money to buy some entertainment fer the event. Her name was Cherry. Noice girl, well-spoken, knew what she was doin'. Filipino, I think."

Spy swallowed his laughter through great effort. "_You lost your virginity to a Filipino hooker?_"

"She wasn't a hooker," Sniper retorted. "She was a massage therapist!"

"Oh, for the right price I'm sure she'd massage your—"

"Okay, okay, what about you?!"

Spy reached over, helped himself to a can of beer, and snapped it open. He took a long guzzle while Sniper stared at him impatiently. Finally the Frenchman smacked his lips and looked to him. "I was eighteen. And 'er name was Lorraine. Lorraine Chaput." His voice softened in remembrance and fondness.

Sniper tilted his head to the side, smile fading a bit at Spy's tone. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. She was….amazing. Not simply in the sexual manner, mind you." Spy tapped his finger against the beer can. "She was brilliant in every manner of the word. Sweet, intelligent, feisty. She 'ad an amazing way with words. She was the first person outside of my family that I loved—really, truly loved. I would 'ave done anything for 'er…" After all these years, the details were coming back to him. Her eyes, her smile, the way she could brighten his day just by being there. She hadn't care that he was a skinny, dirt-poor Jew and she was, well, not. Antoine had disliked her, he recalled, because she had a little brother about his age who was a right terror. His name had been Adrien—or Aaron—or something of the like.

"Wot happened?"

It had been a cold, wet evening in July, and they had been curled up together in an abandoned attic. Philippe had murmured in her ear, drawn a golden ring out of his pocket, and shyly asked her to marry him. She had looked at him, eyes shining, and agreed quietly. He and Lorraine Chaput were going to be together forever.

"The war 'appened," Spy replied, realizing he had been silent for too long. He had never seen her again after that night. "She died."

"Oh. I—I'm sorry—"

"What are you sorry for? You did not pull the trigger."

"Still, it must've been awful, losin' someone ya loved loike that."

"I lost a great many things in the war, Lawrence. In the end, Lorraine became just another body among foundations."

It was impossible to miss the way Sniper's eyes flickered to his left arm and back up again. He didn't pry further, although Spy could all but see him burning with curiosity. He sighed and set aside his beer. "Out of curiosity, 'ow much do you know about what 'appened to me during the war?"

"You were in the camps." Sniper replied slowly, uncomfortable. "The….the death ones."

"Yes. The death ones." Spy breathed out. He looked upwards, to the night sky.

It seemed as though the entire universe had exploded above him. The stars were burning brightly, seemingly large enough to touch. The moon, normally a weak imitation of sun, blazed with the glory of a thousand suns. Swirling bits of galaxies beckoned to him with secrets and whispers. A comet streaked across the sky, looking like an absent-minded swipe of sugar against a black table.

Spy stretched forward, foolishly attempting to brush his fingers against the glorious dark velvet canvas. When his fingers brushed nothing but empty air, he dropped his hand back to his side. "Do you believe in God, Lawrence?"

"God? As much as the next man, I suppose. I mean, you've seen my family."

"Why do you believe in God?"

"Hmmm. Good question." Sniper folded his hands behind his head, lying down in the dirt. "I guess…look, spook, I know I've said time and again that I loike my privacy, and being alone. And I do. But sometimes...sometimes it can get very lonely out here. And sometimes, it's comforting to think that someone out there loves you, no matter what, and it lookin' out fer you." He furrowed his brow and looked back to Spy. "Does that make sense?"

"No," Spy sighed, "not quite." He mimicked Sniper, laying down in the dirt and staring up at the night sky.

"The universe…it's a big, huge, cold, awful place. It's chaos, mate. Absolute chaos. And I guess, it makes me feel better, a little—to think that there's an end goal to all this sufferin', that maybe good people do get rewarded and the bad people do get punished."

"And where do you fancy yourself on that spectrum, Lawrence?"

Sniper shrugged. "Not with the good people."

They were quiet for a moment, and Sniper whispered, "It's because of the camps, innit?"

"What?"

"It's because of the camps. That you don't believe in God."

Spy paused, and then looked to Sniper again. "I never said that."

"Ya didn't have to."

There was a faint, nearly imperceptible shift in Spy's expression, the corners of his mouth tightening and his gray-blue eyes darkening. "Oui. I do not believe in God anymore. As far as the Jewish faith is concerned, I am dead. And yes," there was a node in his throat that could not be dispelled, "it was because of the camps."

"You don't have to—if you don't want to—"

"No, I—" Spy exhaled loudly in frustration. That was the funny thing about ghosts, he supposed. They always seemed less terrifying when there was someone else around. "If you would indulge a sentimental old man…"

"You ain't that old."

"Older than you," Spy rejoined. He turned to stare straight ahead, brow furrowed. "Growing up, I was not a devoutly religious man by any means. But nevertheless Judaism was a part of my identity, a part of _me_. When….I was first deported," he took a deep breath, "I did not lose my faith immediately. Nor when I first arrived in Poland. Faith…was the last thing I lost. And, now that I think about it, I did not lose it. I abandoned it, rejected it. Those camps were hell on earth, Lawrence, and no artist on earth could recreate that misery unless he experienced it himself—so please do not begrudge my skipping over the details. I prayed, and others did also, for forgiveness, for deliverance, and eventually for death. But it seemed the more I prayed the worse the conditions became. I know what 'ell is, Lawrence, and it's not fire and brimstone. It's screaming for 'elp in the middle of a crowd—and no one wanting to listen.

"I began to think that one of two things must have been true—one, that everything the Nazis said about us was true, and therefore we deserved what was happening, or, two, that there was simply no one listening. I—I couldn't bear the first idea, Lawrence. So I chose the second, more tolerable one. I make for a miserable Job, I'm afraid."

He closed his eyes and waited for some kind of verbal tirade from Sniper—only for a heavy hand to come down on his shoulder. He opened one eye, staring at Sniper. The Aussie had breached the space between them, planted his hand on Spy's shoulder, and squeezed it gently, reassuringly. Somehow Spy managed a smile. "No attempt to convert me? Or am I just a lost cause?"

"Nah. Some people live better wif religion, someone people live better without it. I ain't one to judge." Sniper removed his hand, smiling back at Spy.

"What's your stance, then? On God?"

"I dunno. Maybe there is a big old fella wif a white beard staring down at us all. But I kinda loike to think that God ain't that…concrete. That maybe God don't exist up there." His gloved hand curled into a fist, one finger pointing upwards. "Maybe…He's in here." Sniper pressed a finger to his temple. "And in here." He leaned over and pressed his finger into Spy's chest.

The Frenchman's smile grew a bit warmer even as he swatted Sniper's hand away. "Lawrence, you are the smartest man I know."

Sniper started in surprise. "Nah, I'm not—I mean, yer smarter than me, and Engie, and the doc—"

"Intelligence cannot always be measured in 'ow many facts and figures you 'ave memorized." Spy sat up, dusting the dirt from his already stained suit. He stared forward into the dark, fiddling with his fingers for a time. Determination flickered across his features and he turned to Sniper. "I 'ope you appreciate 'ow much trust I am giving you by telling you this."

Sniper nodded quickly.

"Good. Then…might I...'ave your ear, one more time?"

"Sure, mate. Wot about?"

"It's about…" Spy licked his lips, "it's about my younger brothers—"

Sniper sat up sharply. "I didn't know ya had brothers!"

"I don't. Not anymore."

Realization slapped Sniper in the face and the bushman froze, guilt and sorrow and horror creeping into his expression. Spy ignored his thunderstruck look, pulling off his gloves to examine his scarred hands. "It's about my little brothers," he murmured, "and, more importantly, it's about Medic."

As he spoke there was a faint roll of thunder, and lightening streaked across the sky in the distance, heralding the oncoming storm.

**…**

_March 1943_

_ They caught him. After months of giving them the slip, they finally caught the French Jew who has been plaguing my mind since his arrival. I'm stunned he made it this long, but the winter had slowed everyone to a dull, lethargic crawl. I saw the guards dragging him away to be interrogated. He's as good as dead. _

_ I have to tell myself that it's for the best, that death is preferable at this point, but I'm not naïve. They will not let him die quickly._

_ So the question stands._

_ Did I come here to stand idly by?_

_ Or did I come here to _practice medicine_?_

* * *

__"Ugh Chaos this was supposed to be a bromantic story I don't your philosophy up in here-"

I know, right? I shouldn't try to make you think or anything that's just stupid.

(nonetheless I hope Spy doesn't come off as too much of a mouthpiece for myself-finding equal balance in the God discussion can be tricky)

Up next: "And then the moment of relish faded, as did Spy's smile, because it finally occurred to him that he had just punched Sniper several feet down into a body of water _where God-knows-what was going to eat him_."


	17. Crocodile Mun-dee

Bel said I was allowed to quote her on this chapter, and so I quote: "This chapter was… wow. I reckon it's even more heart-wrenching than "No Light, No Light In Your Bright Blue Eyes" from _EMAT_...This chapter was a ten-page punch to the gut, and you can quote me on that". Heheh.

Also a special thanks is needed for Jinny and glados-still-alive, who helped me out in a few spots.

Also, please be sure to read the notice at the end of this chapter. It's important.

Have fun!

* * *

_**Chapter Sixteen: Crocodile Mun-dee**_

Thunder rattled the Mundy house and Dotty glanced up from her book, shifting slightly in her fireside chair. Rain pitter-pattered against the window, occasionally illuminated by a flash of lightening. Another roll of thunder grumbled overhead.

She hoped the boys were safe.

The front door opened and shut with a loud bang, sending the cat in her lap scurrying.

Lizzie and Christian were both sopping wet, giggling madly as the Aborigine shook water droplets off of his umbrella. He grinned down at Lizzie and reached over, tucking a strand of wet hair behind her ear for her. "There. No shower necessary."

"Thanks. For everything." Lizzie beamed. "I had a really great time today—most fun I've had in a while, actually."

"It was no trouble."

"Be….be careful out there, okay? I'd hate to have you be swept away—then I'll never find out what's in your secret barbecue sauce."

"I'm prepared to take that secret to the grave." Christian's tone was deadly serious, but the effect was ruined by a playful wink. "I'll see you soon, got it?"

"Got it!" Lizzie bounced a little on the spot.

"Okay." Christian smiled softly and reached forward, squeezing Lizzie's shoulder. His grip remained for a half a second too long, and then he was out the door once more.

Lizzie hovered by the window, watching him pull away once more. "Be safe," she murmured.

"You're chilled to the bone, sweetheart. Go change before you catch your death."

Lizzie jumped and looked over her shoulder, smiling sheepishly at her mother. "Hullo Mum." She folded her hands on her swollen stomach and took a step forward.

"Hullo dear. Did you and Chris have a good time?" Dotty looked down to her book, scanning the words without reading them.

"Yes, absolutely!" Lizzie's cheeks turned rosy in remembrance of the afternoon. "We had lunch and just hung out—it was nice, really, really nice. Chris was acting a bit odd, though. He might be sick. Do you think you could make him some chicken soup?"

Dotty nodded slowly, her eyes flicking back up to Lizzie as the pregnant woman began to walk out of the room. Lizzie was halfway through the threshold when Dotty muttered, "Lord, help my idiot children."

A few seconds later Lizzie backtracked into the room, staring at her mother. "What?"

"I said," Dotty snapped her book shut with a loud clap, "Lord, help my idiot children, because neither of them would know love if Cupid hit them in arse!" She turned to her daughter, eyebrows arched. "That boy is in _love _with you, and has been since you were children."

Lizzie's jaw dropped, and for an instant she looked exactly like her brother when he was confused. "Wh—what?!"

"Christian Byron-Read is in love with you." Dotty accentuated each word slowly, carefully, crisply, "And has been since you were both children."

Lizzie staggered over the couch and sank down onto it. Her face went red, and then white, and then slightly green. Her hands came up to grip her hair. "That's impossible," she croaked, "there's no way that can be true!"

"It is," Dotty said firmly.

It was. Lizzie's heart sank somewhere into her stomach as the truth wrapped around her like a warm blanket. She buried her face in her hands, groaning. But after a moment, her heart fluttered once more, and this time it was buoyed. Christian _loved_ her. And then it sank again, realizing what was monumentally wrong with that statement. She dragged her hands through her hair and looked up. "What do I do?"

She waited for her mother to tell her to shut Christian out, to never see him again, that this was wrong and unnatural and it simply wouldn't do. She waited in vain, hoping that her mother would tell her what was best, and that she wouldn't have to make the difficult choice herself.

Dotty looked at her levelly. "What do you think you should do?"

"It's—it's not right, Mother! I'm married and pregnant and—" she fell silent. Even if she weren't married and pregnant, she and Christian couldn't be together. Her heart twisted at the unfairness of it all, and she looked to Dotty with tears in her eyes. "I have to tell him that it can never be."

Dotty's eyes darkened in sorrow. "All right. But let him down gently, dear."

"I'll….I'll try," Lizzie rubbed at her suddenly sore throat. She looked down, around, up, anywhere but at her mother. Finally she sighed. "Are 'rence and Phil back yet?"

"No." Dotty shook her head. "I'm afraid not."

"Think they're all right?"

"They're fine," Dotty breathed out, looking down the window in the rain, "they're fine."

**…**

"…holy shit."

"Oui—merde alors…" Spy's words were slurred and he crumpled the empty beer can in his hands, throwing it into the pile on the floor. He'd been drinking heavily, and it made his tale at the same time easier and more difficult to recount. His head was thick and fuzzy, his tongue heavy and difficult to control. His words stumbled over themselves, and sometimes he slipped into French, forcing Sniper to decipher what he was saying. But it was also easier, somehow, because the more he drank the lighter he felt, the farther and farther he drifted from the depressing scene. It felt like someone else was telling his sad tale, and he was merely an observer. "Merde alors," he repeatedly brokenly, reaching for another beer.

Sniper leaned over and snatched the remainder of the beers away. "That's enough," he said firmly, tucking them under the Murphy bed. His stomach was roiling with nausea and his throat was dry, and the more he tried to envision the scene the more it hurt. He pressed his palms together and looked back to the swaying Spy. "That's enough," he repeated, voice lowering a bit.

The pair was seated in the dark on the Murphy bed, the soft patter of rain growing harder by the minute. Thunder roiled in the distance and Sniper stiffened, gritting his teeth even as he looked back to Spy.

"So….Medic's a Nazi."

Spy nodded slowly, head pounding.

"Wot….wot are we gonna do?"

"We?" Spy grimaced. "There is no "we"."

Sniper looked somewhat hurt by the assertion, but he didn't press it further. He knew better than to risk provoking Spy when the Frenchman had already been pushed to his limits. "Wot are you gonna do, then?"

Spy swallowed hard, wondering why the taste of ash was in his mouth. "I'm leaving RED."

"WHAT?! YOU CAN'T—"

Spy swiveled his head to look at him, eyebrows arched.

"I—I mean—" Sniper assumed a scowl "—it was a pain in the arse gettin' used to ya, I don't want to have to adjust to another French poof!"

Smile twisted, Spy shrugged. "You'll manage."

The Frenchman was blinking rapidly and Sniper pretended not to see the tears in his eyes. "Hey mate," he murmured, uncertain of what to say, "it's…it's not yer fault. Wot happened."

"I could 'ave—I could 'ave done something—gone with them—"

"You could have. But wot good would have that done? They would've shot ya in front of Antoine and Henri. And they'd have that image with them…"

At the names Spy shivered, but Sniper pressed on. "It ain't yer fault. You never should have had ta live through that. I want ya ta say it, Phil. I want you ta say it ain't yer fault."

Spy brushed at his eyes furiously, trying to break through the haze of alcohol and focus on what Sniper was saying. Do not cry, that faint, dignified part of his mind chided. Do not cry. To cry was weakness, and the last thing he wanted to be seen as was a weak, soft thing. He'd had enough of that. Do not cry, do not cry—

Damn.

He was crying.

He buried his face in his hands, trying to hide his tears and muffle the strangled sobs escaping his chest. He screwed his eyes shut, feeling sick and alone and full of self-loathing. And when Sniper stayed completely still beside him, he only felt worse. He had bared his soul to another, and what good had come from it? Now, Sniper—his only friend—would hate him for his weakness, judge him for his actions, or, worst of all, pity him.

And then the hand came down on his shoulder.

Spy looked up sharply, staring at Sniper. He had removed his aviators to reveal his bright blue eyes, and Spy was stunned by the look he saw in them. There wasn't hatred, or judgment, or loathing. There wasn't fear or anger or even pity.

There was just concern.

"I—I'm sorry," Spy stammered, "I'm sorry—I'm not like this—"

"Phil, I've lived wif ya fer a year and a half. I know yer not loike this." Sniper withdrew his hand and dug into his pocket. He handed Spy a handkerchief, expression earnest. "It's okay, mate. It's okay, I swear."

"I'm sorry, Lawrence," Spy muttered, forcing himself to focus, "I'm sorry. This is not your concern—"

"Yer my best friend, Phil! It _is_ my concern!"

Spy chuckled hollowly. "Me? You 'ave very poor taste in friends, La—Lawrence." He screwed his eyes shut and reopened them, wondering why the van was tilting.

"Hell yeahI do." Sniper nodded. "But that don't stop me from worrying." That small, empathetic part of him stirred once more, but this time Sniper supposed it wasn't as small as he'd like to think. "Now, I wanna hear ya say it. It wasn't my fault—"

There was a sudden, very near clap of thunder and Sniper froze, going so rigid that pain crawled from his broken hand all the way up his arm.

Spy swallowed his misery and looked to him. "Qu'est-ce qui ne va pas, Lawrence?"

"Eh?"

"Um—wh—" Damn, why was English so difficult? "What is wrong?"

Sniper looked up to the roof of the van. "It's stupid," he mumbled.

"Non, tell….me."

"I….I don't loike thunder, okay? Ever since I was a little kid….I've been afraid of it. Every time there was a storm, I'd go runnin' ta me mum. And when I got to big fer that…I'd hug myself and pray ta Saint Francis all night. The Assisi one."

"Because?"

"He was my favorite." Sniper shrugged.

Silence fell between them, punctured only by growing thunder and Spy's soft sniffles. Sniper looked to him. "Hey. How're ya feeling?"

Spy lowered his head and began to rub the back of his head. In truth, he felt sick to his stomach, shaking with exhaustion and anxiety and dizzy from drinking and filled from head-to-toe with revulsion. And beneath all that, stirring slowly, was anger.

He was surprised to feel it—that hot, ugly anger twisting in his gut. It felt like iron was trickling down his throat and through his innards, weighing him down, stopping him from screaming bloody murder. The anger spread, red and writhing, but who or what that anger belonged to what difficult to discern.

Exhaustion followed anger, and then beat it back, as if a bright flame had been suddenly snuffed out. He blinked, feeling a hundred years old. He slumped over onto the Murphy bed, eyes fluttering shut. "Je suis crevé," he mumbled.

After a moment he felt a tight grip on his foot. He jerked reflexively, only for Sniper to grumble about damn bloody spooks. He relaxed once more, listless as Sniper pulled off his shoes and threw a blanket around him. "Merci, Lawrence," he murmured into the pillow, which smelled like a disgusting mixture of sweat and smoke, "you are a good friend."

"Don't remind me," Sniper grumbled as he slipped off the bed and onto the floor. The Australian waited until Spy's breathing eased to a careful, steadied pace. The storm raged outside, and Sniper grounded his teeth. And then he did what he'd done every time he had been caught out here alone—he hugged himself tightly and prayed to gentle Saint Francis that he would make it through the night.

**…**

He knew he was dreaming.

In some odd fashion, part of his brain understood that this was a dream, that he was safe and asleep in the van. It kept him calm, grounded to reality as he stepped through the darkness, hands running through a cool mist as he flailed them about, trying to touch something that was corporeal.

There was nothing.

Nevertheless, Sniper didn't get scared. "Phil?" He called out, stopping and looking around the black surroundings. "Phil? Where are ya, mate?"

No answer. Not even his own voice echoed back to him, and a line of cold sweat broke over Sniper's brow in terror. He staggered forward. "Phil? Mum? Dad? Lizzie—anyone? OI! Where are you all?!"

He broke into a sprint, only for something gooey and sticky to coagulate around his ankles, slowing him down and forcing him to stumble. He floundered ahead, undeterred, and snarled when he fell to his knees. "OI! LEMME GO!"

He coiled his body tightly, centering himself, and lunged forward. But when he did a clap of thunder sounded overhead and lighting streaked down, striking his back and—

With a gasp Sniper shot straight up, hands flailing forward. And then he blinked the sleep out of his eyes, looking around dully. The van. He was still in the van. Of course, where else would he be?

Sniper arched his back, sore from sleeping on the floor, and rubbed his stiff neck, grumbling under his breath. He was getting far too old for this.

It was then that the awful, choking noise began.

Sniper jolted to full alertness, scrambling up off of the floor. "Phil?! PHIL!"

On the Murphy bed Spy had curled into himself, panting loudly in his sleep and hugging himself tightly. Another low, strangled cry escaped him, dying into a low, constant whimper.

Sniper crouched down and shook him gently. "Phil?"

Spy's eyes opened a fraction, but his gaze was distant and faraway, glazed and unfocused. His breath came in short spats, his body trembling. Sniper shook him again, calling his name softly, but Spy's mind was too far away to hear him.

Panic stopped his heart and blood began to roar in his ears. He gave Spy around rough shake with his good hand, pleading with him to wake up.

When the Frenchman didn't stir, Sniper was seized by an idea so stupid and self-endangering that it was almost guaranteed to work. He leaned forward and grabbed the soft cloth of Spy's balaclava, fabric curling into his fingers as he balled his hand into a fist.

He just hoped Spy would forgive him for this.

The instant cool night air hit bare, sweaty flesh Spy was gasping, reeling backwards and flailing like a man lost at sea, struggling to make sense of reality. He flattened himself up against the wall, blinking rapidly and looking like a cornered cat. When the sheepish Sniper came into focus, the first thing Spy saw was the red fabric in his hands. Slowly, trembling from shock and disorientation, his gloved fingers came up to touch his bare, flaky skin.

"YOU SON OF A BITCH!"

An instant later Sniper found himself on the floor of the van with a furious Frenchman sitting astride him. A pair of gloved hands clasped around his throat and he choked, thrashing and grappling as Spy squeezed. "Phil—don't—"

"You do not remove my mask." Spy's voice went colder than ice and he lifted Sniper's head up slightly, only to slam it against the floor of the van. Bright white pinpoints of light flicked around Sniper's vision and he gasped for air. Spy just scowled. "_You never remove my mask_." His grip on Sniper's neck tightened as he felt the cool air touch his exposed skin once more.

Exposed. Open. Ugly. His true face was like a festering wound—covered but never truly healed, but better covered than revealing that decaying flesh. That mask represented more than just a means of hiding—that mask was power, was strength, was mystery and cunning and all the other things he'd learn to embody. And with one quick motion Sniper had stripped the tough outer shell away, revealing the soft, pale underbelly beneath.

No one was supposed to see the man behind the mask. No one was supposed to know he was there, cowering in the corner like a starved and beaten dog. And now that he was exposed, now that he was human again, everything came rushing back in droves. The scene in the van flickered from his vision as a invisible, giant hook snaked around him, pulling him back through time—

"Phil—please—"

The strangled whisper jerked him back into reality, if only for an instant, and he released his vice-grip on Sniper. The Australian gasped in relief, coughing and hacking and rubbing at the reddening splotches around his neck.

Spy stared at his handiwork in horror before scrambling up off of Sniper, backing away. His hands still crawled over his bare skin and he staggered back, against the kitchenette counter, and then towards the door, and finally out into the raging storm.

Sniper sat up, still wheezing, and stared out at Spy, who quickly retreating into the fierce sleet of rain. Thunder rumbled and for an instant he cringed, but when Spy stormed through the trees and vanished, he didn't hesitate in clambering after him.

**…**

The rain fell hard and fast, more like ice than drops of water, and every ping against Spy's meager suit felt like a bite from a small but furious insect. Still he stumbled forward, teeth gritted, breath coming in spurts, arms wrapped around his torso protectively. He bumped into a tree, lurched backwards, and then renewed his pace, walking into darkness until it became an effort to lift his shoes out of the muck. He recognized the billabong and froze.

"PHILIPPE! PHILIPPE WAIT, YA DAMN FOOL!"

He spun carefully, and as the lightening flashed Sniper's form was illuminated, barreling towards him. "PHIL, WAIT!"

"Wait for WHAT?" Spy demanded, arms lowering into order to clench his fists. "I cannot wait! For you, or for anyone!"

"AND THAT'S EXACTLY YOUR PROBLEM!" Sniper slowed to a standstill, feet away from him. "You always run! At the first sign of trouble you disappear! Well, guess wot? It ain't gonna solve ANYTHING!"

"I 'ave exactly three words for you, Lawrence!" Spy took a step forward. "Pot! Kettle! BLACK!"

They began to circle around each other like lean, hungry predators, eyes flashing and stances tense. The rain began to beat sideways in a furor and the wind howled, trees groaning as they were battered mercilessly in the storm. But for the two hunters, the storm ceased to exist. Everything was quiet and calm in their own minds. For them, the world seemed to hold its breath, waiting for them to make their move.

"S'true," Sniper snarled, stalking around Spy. The Frenchman mimicked his movement carefully. "S'true. I might run, same as you. But at least I can admit it! You—you think yer so much better than everyone else, don't ya?! You think that you can run, an' hide, and you don't have to deal with trouble! Because trouble means actually giving a crap about someone else! And that's just too much work fer you, ain't it?! It's jus' too much time and effort to FEEL SOMETHING FOR SOMEONE ELSE! And God forbid, if you allowed yerself to be compassionate, ya might grow attached to someone else! And that jus' ain't you, isn't it?"

He tossed the balaclava in his hand to the ground, splattering it with mud. "Go on," Sniper panted, "go on and run and pretend you ain't human. Go and run and die alone, because that's what's gonna happen if you keep pushin' everyone away!"

"That maybe so!" Spy snapped back. He ignored the balaclava in the mud. He and Sniper continued to move in circles. "But at least I've chosen my fate!"

"And wot's that supposed ta mean?!" Sniper roared over the din, freezing in his tracks.

"You can act like you're better than me," Spy sneered, "but everyone can see through your façade." He waited for discomfort to flicker across Sniper's features before continuing on. "There's only one person you 'ate more than Jack, Lawrence, and that's yourself! And you 'ate Jack because you can't be him!"

And then the words came tumbling out, faster and harder than he thought possible, faster than his brain, or, at least, his conscience, could register. He was furious, and that fury manifested in the ugliest way possible: "You can't be the perfect Australian everyone wants you to be! You NEVER will be! You're a _freak_, Lawrence, a _freak_ who needed to pay a woman to lose 'is virginity! Look at yourself! An ugly, unkempt, uneducated slob who lives in a van and pisses in jars! No woman in 'er right mind would ever fall in love with _YOU_! I'm going to die alone, but at least it's because I chose to be alone, and not because some genetic malfunction repelled everyone from me!"

Too late, his conscience realized what he had said. Too late, his surroundings came back to him. And too late, he clamped his hand to his mouth, eyes widening.

Sniper stood stock-still in the rain, shoulders slumped, rain dribbling over the brim of his hat. And it might have been a trick of the night, or it might have been rainwater, but it seemed as through tears were trickling down his sharp, angular face as he stared at Spy. "Wot did the world ever do to you, spook?"

"It chewed me up and spat me out, that's what it did!" The remorse began to fade away, replaced by the hot, stirring fury he'd felt in the van. "It took everything from me!"

"No." Sniper shook his head. "That wasn't the world. That was some fucked-up German and his followers. The world don't deserve yer bitterness. And neither do I."

"The _world_," Spy spat, "is a cold, cruel, selfish place. Why do you refuse to see that?"

"You don't think I can't?!" Sniper boomed, throwing his hands into the air. "You don't think I can't see the same things you do?! You think I'm wearing blinders?! I AIN'T!"

"Then 'ow can you be so sure everything will turn out all right?!" Philippe roared, grabbing at his temples in frustration.

"BECAUSE THERE'S GOOD IN THIS COLD, STUPID, SELFISH WORLD, PHIL!" Sniper charged forward, grabbed Spy by the lapels, and brought his maskless face close to his, staring him down. "AND IT'S WORTH FIGHTIN' FER!"

"And where is this good?" Spy took fistfuls of Sniper's shirt and flung him, with surprising strength, to the edge of the billabong. The Aussie staggered up, the ground beneath him crumbling slightly.

"It's all around ya!" Sniper flung his arms out. "It's in holidays with family, and working with friends, it's in barbecues and little secret paintings and long drives! It's in good food and good music! It's havin' someone to care about, and havin' someone care about you!"

When Spy scoffed and half-turned away, Sniper scowled. "Of course. You wouldn't know wot it's loike. Because yer too bitter and angry to see that good. Hate ain't gonna bring yer boys back, Phil, 'cause hate's wot took 'em in the first place. And even if you could get 'em back," his eyes flicked over Spy, and when he spoke again his tone was soft, disappointed, saddened, all the frustration and fury having left him in a rush, "and even if you could get Antoine and Henri back…at this point you don't deserve 'em."

At the moment in time, the fastest land mammal was not an African cheetah. It was a pissed-off Spy, who, before Sniper could even blinked, had crossed the space between them and punched him in the jaw.

Sniper had about half a second to look surprised before he toppled over the edge of the billabong and landed with a splash in the water below.

Spy stood, fist throbbing with pain, and watched as the ripples of Sniper's descent slowly faded. He grinned maliciously, filled with an awful relish, and felt a rush of perverse satisfaction when Sniper didn't resurface.

After a moment, however, the Aussie resurfaced with a gasp, splashing and flailing and howling with pain and shock and fury. He thrashed upwards. "YOU FUCKING FUCKER! YOU SON OF A BITCH!" He clung to his limp arm and staggered forward. "WHEN I GET BACK UP THERE—" He froze, voice dying away abruptly. For the second time in less than five minutes an expression of utter shock and disbelief flashed across his face, only this time it was followed by horror. Suddenly he was yanked under the water once more with a sharp yelp.

When he didn't come up again, Spy's fury subsided. And then the moment of relish faded, as did Spy's smile, because it finally occurred to him that he had just punched Sniper several feet down into a body of water _where God-knows-what was going to eat him_. "L-Lawrence?" He stammered, stumbling forward to the edge of the lake. "Lawrence, this isn't funny! LAWRENCE!"

And then the Australian did resurface. Only this time, he was clinging to the back of the biggest, scaliest, most horrifying monster Spy at ever seen. The monster roared and spun, and Sniper grappled forward with his good hand, desperately trying not to get crushed by its death roll. "HELP!" He managed to splutter before going under once more.

The water churned by the beast and the bushman went red with blood, and Spy's heart stopped.

"HOLD ON, LAWRENCE! HOLD ON!" Instantly he began to search for a weapon, a stick, a rock, _anything_ that would stop the creature currently trying to eat his friend alive.

As if by some divine intervention, lightening shattered the dark night, illuminating the Mundymobile sitting contently some yards away. He sucked in his breath and darted forward, praying to someone—something—that Sniper would be all right.

**…**

Wet. Dark. Cold. Pain.

_Focus! Focus!_

Sniper twisted and writhed in the water. The crocodile slid past his leg and Sniper's arm shot up, grabbing the scaly back. The moment he did, the crocodile seemed to snarl. Sniper's world became a horrid mixture of black and blood and he hung on for dear life, lungs screaming for air and eyes burning.

The croc's death roll didn't kill him, but something tore and hot pain slashed across his back. Instinctively his mouth opened in a scream, water rushing into his mouth and throat. He choked, swallowed, and darkness ringed his vision. Blood and water roared in his ears and the croc, sensing his weakness, made to roll again.

On the apex on the spin, however, Sniper released the croc. Blinded, he planted his boots on the croc and shot upwards—or perhaps it was downwards—anywhere, as long as it was away from whatever was trying to eat him.

One limb useless, the others straining forward, he broke the surface of the water with a pained gasp. "PHIL!"

"LAWRENCE!"

His vision was blurred and his mind was only just holding on to reality, but then lightening streaked across the sky once more, and Spy's dark figure was in sharp contrast to bright light, clutching a familiar gun. Sniper nearly sobbed in relief. "HURRY!"

Something brushed against his leg and Sniper forced himself to take a deep breath, a scream pressing against his sealed lips as rows of sharp teeth sank into his leg, pulling him back into the deep.

**…**

"LAWRENCE!"

_Stay calm! Stay calm, you fool!_

Spy's fingers were trembling as examined the sniper rifle in his hands. How did Sniper use this thing?! He took a deep breath and tried to recall what Sniper had done, those times he'd seen him shoot.

Hastily he loaded a magazine into the chamber, locked it, and peered through the scope, finger tensing against the trigger as he scanned the still water. His heart was hammering like a drum, beating painfully against his ribcage as he waited for something to disturb the water's surface.

There was an all-mighty splash and Sniper splashed upwards, scrambling for the bank. The great, huge monster bobbed upwards after him, jaws extended.

Thunder buried the gunfire, but it couldn't hide the spray of blood, nor the roar of pain from the beast. Sniper flung himself forward once more, and Spy reloaded and fired with a quick precision.

His aim was accurate, surprisingly so, and the great monster thrashed in death throes as it bled out.

It sank once more, beneath the water, and Sniper's desperate flounder forward ceased. The Aussie went still, frighteningly still, and didn't move when Spy called his name.

The rifle went clattering to the ground as Spy slid down the muddy bank and dove into the water, ignoring his body's spasm as the sudden cold. He swam out to the unmoving Sniper, still calling out to him. "Lawrence….Lawrence!"

His hat was bobbing gently beside him, and Spy grabbed it first, placing it back on his head before hoisting Sniper onto his back. He swam back to the back and pulled Sniper up onto it, rolling him onto his back to assess the damage.

Blood pumped from his left leg, and his right arm was bent at an awful angle. Blood from his back pooled into the mud. Breathing hard and fast, Spy pressed his ear to Sniper's chest, searching for a heartbeat.

It was there, faint but steady, and Sniper's eyes fluttered open as Spy sat back, grabbing at his temples. "Phil," he croaked.

"Lawrence, I'm sorry, I'm so—so, sorry, this is all my fault—"

Sniper's eyes closed once more and he licked his lips. "Can ya take me to the hospital?"

**…**

The smell of antiseptic was cloying and overwhelming, and it made the invisible Spy fidget as the nurses checked Sniper's blood pressure for the fifth time that night.

"You're lucky," she commented lightly, pulling back the hospital-issued gown to examine his bandages. "Very lucky. You could have lost that leg."

"You think that's the first time I've wrestled a croc?" Sniper laughed and shook his head. "He only got me by surprise this time! I'd be wearing his skin roight now otherwise!"

The nurse smiled indulgently and nodded. "Well, Mister Mundy, you should be out of here in no time! If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask. My shift lasts until seven in the morning." She exited with a quick, happy wave.

Once she was gone Spy decloaked, sitting down in the spare chair beside Sniper's bed, studying him intently.

The color was back in his face, his eyes were bright and attentive, and his wounds were stitched up tightly. The crocodile's bite, while severe, had not broken any major arteries. His broken arm, and hand, had been reset and casted properly. His miraculous rebound was attributed to Spy's quick emergency treatment, which prevented him from losing more blood.

He was going to live, with all his limbs intact.

Nevertheless that didn't prevent Sniper from wincing a bit in his hospital bed as he looked to Spy. "Can ya fluff my pillow?"

The Frenchman rolled his eyes and did as he was asked, sitting back once more when Sniper's pillow was good and floofy. "Comfy?"

"Yeah," Sniper nodded and settled back, "thanks."

Spy clasped and unclasped his hands, looking down at the sickeningly sterile floor. The familiar weight of his balaclava was hiding his face once more, but it couldn't hide the scene in the rain. Guilt, heavy and slimy, slid down his throat like an unpleasant meal. His excessive drinking from earlier was finally catching up to him, making his mind hazy. He sighed. "Lawrence…I'm sorry. For everything."

"I'm sorry too."

"No…you were only trying to 'elp. Everything I said...I said in haste."

"Me too. I shouldn't've…said…wot I did."

"You almost died because I couldn't face the truth."

"Almost," Sniper assured him. "Almost."

"I—"

"Shut up. Look, ya can make it up to me by sneakin' me outta here tomorrow."

"Lawrence, you need time to heal!"

"I can't stay here, Phil!" Sniper scowled and shifted. "I hate hospitals. Hospitals are where people go ta die."

"Hmmm. Don't let the women in the maternity ward 'ear that."

Sniper turned to him, eyebrow quirked. "You know wot I mean."

Spy exhaled in exasperation. "Yes. I suppose I do." He began to look around the sparse hospital room, rubbing his shoulders protectively as he did so.

Sniper noted the action. "Everything all roight?"

"Lawrence….there's something….I didn't tell you." Spy swallowed hard. "About Medic. And myself."

Sniper considered him for a moment, and then sat up as quickly as his new stitches would allow. "Medic—did he—" A low, animalistic snarl escaped him "—am I going to have ta kill him?"

"No—" Spy shook his head "—no. In the camps, Medic did not so long as poke me with a stick. I told that 'e and I were in the same camp. I told you that 'e try to save my brothers. What I did not tell you…out of fear that you would see me as weak…was that Medic…"

He hesitated, and it was only when he looked to Sniper's battered and bruised form that he could force himself to say it:

"Medic saved my life."

* * *

All right, a _**warning**_ for next chapter: Next chapter is going to be another flashback chapter. And it's not going to be pretty. Speaking as a history buff, I refuse to soften or censor the past, but at the same time I don't want to make anyone throw up either-and while researching for next chapter I almost did. This next chapter_ will_ contain some gruesome stuff, torture foremost among them.

If you feel the need to skip the next chapter and go on ahead, I will not blame/judge you in the slightest.

As for the rest of you...hold on to your hats.


	18. I Am Weary (Let Me Rest)

Welcome back, guys! Thanks for all the great feedback last chapter. :)

Before we begin, I need to thank Bel for her unending support, and to Dr. Q. Uirk for allowing me to borrow Friedrich. If you like Medic, Soldier, and friendship (and who doesn't, really?), then be sure to check out Dr. Q's "Fraternizing With The Enemy"!

* * *

_**Chapter Seventeen: I Am Weary (Let Me Rest)**_

The Jew was stubbornly, infuriatingly, silent.

The only sound he made was a small, animalistic yip when another of his nails was torn away, and then he gritted his teeth once more. Tears streamed unchecked down his gaunt cheeks, but not a single sob shook him. He glared up at his torturers, who circled him like lean wolves, and ignored the steady drip-drip-drip of his blood plopping onto the floor.

"276407," the biggest of the guards cooed, crouching slightly to look the Jew in the eyes, "we've been nothing but cooperative with you this whole time. Is that what they're calling it these days? Why don't you drop the act, hm? Before it gets worse?"

The Jew's eyes flicked to his bloodied hands and back, expression tightening. His mouth pressed into a thin, hard line.

"No?" The guard clucked his tongue. He reached up, stroking the Jew's stubbly head, and grinned when the prisoner flinched away. "Brave of you. Stupid, but brave. Ah-ah-ah-ah, shhh," he hushed the Jew as he tried to inch away, "don't move."

There was a warning edge to the guard's voice, and the Jew froze in his spot. "Good," the guard purred, still stroking his head like he was an overgrown cat, "now, you might not care if we took you out and shot you like a dog. But what of the rest of the men on your block? They're the ones you were stealing food for, wasn't it? If you do not confess to stealing from the warehouse, we'll lock the men on your block—all, hm, seven hundred or so—in their barracks, and starve them to death. Or we could have them all shot." His tone was light, conversational, as if he were talking about the weather and not the fate of seven hundred men. The guard looked to his fellows. "What do you think, Ralf?"

The tallest guard, Ralf, angled his head. "We could just set them all alight, Hans. It's quicker and cleaner than starving them out. They're going up in smoke anyway."

A low growl escaped the prisoner and he finally succeeded in jerking his head away from Hans. His gray-blue eyes were darkening with fury, even as he was dragged up out of the metal chair and slammed against the wall.

"Listen to me, Jew," Hans' gripped the threadbare shirt the Jew was wearing, pressing him as far into the wall as he could possible go, "and listen well. We know you were stealing from the stores. We're going to kill you for it. It's just a matter of how…and when. Just confess, and it won't be that painful. But if you don't—" he leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper "—I'll personally skin your feet, and force you to walk across rocks."

The Jew's eyes flashed. "BRÛLE EN ENFER!" With the last of his strength he spat in Hans' face.

The German howled as bloody spittle seeped into his eyes, releasing his grip on the Jew in order to rub at his face. The Jew took the distraction as an opportunity and, faster than any of the others guards could have thought, struck forward, swiped a switchblade from Has' belt, flipped it through his fingers and slashed Hans across the chest.

His uniform was thick and the Jew lacked the strength to actually make a penetrating slice, but the action in and of itself was enough.

They were on him in an instant like dogs on rancid meat, snarling and barking with teeth bared and eyes flashing. They threw him to the ground, beating him and kicking him with steel-toed boots. The Jew slid back into the corner, cowering away from the blow and throwing his hands over his head in a vain attempt to protect himself.

Hans recovered, noted his slashed uniform, and a low growl escaped him. "HOLD HIM DOWN!"

The rest did as commanded, slamming the Jew down onto the hard gray floor and holding him down firmly as he thrashed wildly. The Jew swore loudly in French, gaze turning up to Hans as the German stooped to pick up his fallen knife.

The Jew cringed, chest rising and falling rapidly, breath coming in short, swift spats. His eyes widened and a small whimper escaped him as Hans straddled him. His head was jerked back roughly, and Hans drew the blade across his chin in a sickeningly playful manner. "I'm going to gut you like a pig."

With the prisoner still twitching and jerking beneath him, Hans' hands traveled downwards, point of the blade piercing through threadbare clothes, gliding lightly over sickly skin. Hans angled his head, shifted off of the Jew, and pressed his blade into the sole of the Jew's calloused left foot.

The Jew looked up a little, meeting Hans' eyes with his own widened in fear and horror. He shook his head, silently pleading for mercy.

Hans shrugged a bit, as if to say "you brought this on yourself" before his blade slid under the Jew's ankle and sliced his Achilles tendon clean.

The room practically shook with unbridled screams. The Jew's gray-blue eyes rolled back into his head as wave after wave of hot, wet pain rolled over him, drowning him in agony.

The gray interrogation room wavered and he panted, internally begging for sweet Death to take him. But still he lived, and there was no relief—only agony, agony unending, and for an instant he was convinced he had died and gone to hell.

"MARY MOTHER OF GOD! What's going on in here?"

At the horrified cry the black-clad guards collectively turned, expressions ranging from irritation to horror when they saw who had burst through the door. The sobbing Jew pressed himself into the wall, recoiling away even as his blood washed over the floor.

Ralf recovered first, clearing his throat. "Doctor Pfaff. We were interrogating this prisoner."

Josef Pfaff stared at him, eyes icy with contempt. "I take it the techniques you are using are less than perfect." He stepped forward, pristine white coat billowing out a bit behind him as he did so. The effect made him look bigger somehow, and a few of the less-emboldened guards took a step backwards. Josef's eyes locked on Hans and the red-stained knife. "Has he confessed to anything yet?"

"No. But he's the bastard who's been stealing from the warehouse."

"And do you have any concrete proof?" Nonchalant, Josef leaned up against the steel table and folded his arms across his chest.

The guards shifted and looked to Hans as their leader. The big German scowled and cleared his throat. "He was hanging around the stores when he should have been reporting for work."

"He was hanging around the stores—" Josef repeated the sentence slowly, deliberately, and with such a tone of disdain that it made the explanation sound stupid ."—when he should have reported for work." His stance had not changed. The Jew lifted his head out of his arms, blinking through the haze of pain to watch the scene.

A few of the guards shifted from foot-to-foot, not out of guilt or shame for what they'd done but rather because the doctor's condescending tone made them feel like idiot children. Hans pocketed his knife without further comment.

Josef smiled faintly. "I see. And did you even bother searching him for stolen goods before dragging him in here?"

Hans snapped his fingers at one of the younger guards. "Theodor, strip him."

Theodor jumped and nodded, rushing over to the still Jew and all but slicing his striped uniform off of his stick-figure body. Josef's expression remained neutral even as he took in the Jew's malnourished appearance, eying him with a practiced doctor's eye. The Jew brought his arms up and hugged himself, shivering as Theodor patted through the clothes. He tossed them back to the ground with little thought. "Nothing there."

Josef turned back to Hans, because his eyes kept flicking back to the Jew as he put his clothes back on with a lethargic pace. There were bloody handprints left on his arms from where his ruined hands had clenched his pale flesh.

Knowing full well that Hans' mouth had twisted in suspicion, Josef looked back to him fully. "So, to recap, you apprehended this prisoner with no evidence, and, when you could not get a confession out of him, you planned on…what? Slicing him up bit by bit?" He lifted his hands up and brought them together, performing a slow, sarcastic clap. "Brilliant work by Germany's finest."

Hans' expression darkened and the rest took to looking at different corners of the room. Hans muttered something under his breath about "cowards" and straightened to his full height. "Why are you here, Pfaff?"

"Doctor Pfaff," Josef corrected, tugging at his coat, "and I'm here because I'm not about to let you destroy such a valuable specimen."

Hans scoffed. "There are a million other Jews out there. What makes this one so valuable?"

In response, Josef spun around and walked over to the rapidly-fading Jew. He grabbed his chin roughly and jerked his face up to the light. Josef made a small noise in his throat as he took in the Jew's unfocused expression. "Mmm-hm. Just as I thought. This one has blue eyes."

"So?"

"So," Josef huffed in exasperation, "one of his family members must have been Aryan, along the line. By studying him and his genes, perhaps we can begin to understand the biological makeup of the lesser races, and alter them appropriately."

"Genes?" Theodor repeated with some confusion.

Josef gave him a withering look and stood once more. "This Jew will have to come with me."

"He's part of an official investigation!"

"He's part—" here Josef shoved his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose, and as he did they took on a scary, shiny quality "—of the vast experiments being conducted in the field of eugenics. Unless you wish to take this up with my superiors?" He tilted his head to the side, practically baiting them.

As a whole the guards hesitated. The only thing worse than dealing with a pushy camp doctor was dealing with his pushy superiors, who were also bloated with self-importance and, well, downright terrifying.

Hans gritted his teeth and gestured dismissively towards the Jew. "Fine. Take him."

Josef nodded in thanks, although the gesture was more a formality than anything else. He stooped to take the Jew's arm, but Hans held up his hand as he did. "He can walk."

Josef cocked an eyebrow. "With those injuries?"

"_He_ _can_ _walk_."

The Jew might not have understood what they were saying completely, but the gist of Hans' tone was enough. He braced himself against the wall, pressed his hands to the cool surface, and forced himself upright, still half-sobbing. However, the terror of his mind must have numbed the pain of his body, because he went to stand on his full weight. When he did so, his ruined ankle gave way, and he collapsed to the ground once more, biting his lip so hard that it broke the skin. Blood dribbled down his chin.

He stood once more, more carefully, with his left foot hovering off of the floor. He inched forward, and as it did those watching collectively cringed. His left foot dangled like a limp marionette, and Theodor turned green, screwing his eyes shut. The Jew staggered forward and Josef was beside him in an instant, slipping his arm around the Jew. Reflexively the Jew leaned into his rescuer, unable to support himself any longer.

The rest watched, eyes steely, as Josef half-dragged, half-carried the Jew out of the interrogation room. Hans shifted from foot-to-foot and scowled. "Jew lover," he muttered as the door swung shut.

"Ne vous en faites pas," Josef murmured softly, iron composure softening, "Je ne vais pas vous faire de mal."

The familiar words stirred the Jew and he looked up, expression clearing a bit. "V—Vous parlez français?" He stammered.

"Oui, un peu."

"Qu'est-ce que vous allez faire de moi?"

Josef hesitated. He was exhausting his little knowledge of the French language, recalled from what Joelle had taught him. He simply settled for a soothing squeeze of the Jew's shoulder—or, at least, he tried.

Something like hope dawned in the Jew's eyes. And then he simply slumped forward, leaving his fate in the hands of stranger. "Philippe Vidal," he murmured before his body went limp, "Je m'appelle Philippe Vidal." He buckled and Medic was forced to bear his whole weight, dragging him through the darkened and nearly-empty camp.

Philippe Vidal. So that was his name. It was a good name, a strong name. It suited him, Josef supposed, as much as any name might. Philippe Vidal—no longer a face in the crowd, no longer a number. A person, a man, with as much dignity as any.

Or, he would have, if he wasn't in such a sorry state.

The infirmary barracks were a painful excuse for a hospital at all. Josef redoubled his grip and steered clear of the quarantined barracks, from which low moans and cries echoed. His heart twisted in pity, but there was nothing he could do for them.

He could only save one.

"Josef? What on earth are you doing?"

The German froze mid-step. His throat constricted as he looked for the source of the voice, but then relaxed when he found it. "Friedrich! Don't scare me like that!"

Friedrich all but melted out of the shadows, quirking an eyebrow the unconscious Philippe. "What's this? A new pet?"

"Not now," Josef gritted his teeth, "he needs immediate surgery. He'll die otherwise."

Friedrich flicked a piece of lint off of his coat and sighed. "Josef…"

"Please. I wouldn't be asking you if I knew you'd refuse."

Friedrich looked momentarily at odds, and stared out in the cold night for a time, gnawing on his lip. "Very well. But this is the last time you play God, do you understand?"

They both knew very well how painfully ironic the statement was, but Josef was in too much of a hurry to care. He nodded quickly, and Friedrich followed him slowly to the surgical block.

**…**

They had iodine, and sterilized instruments, and needles that could be used to inject almost anything into the bloodstream—but beyond that there was nothing. These blocks weren't designed to help prisoners.

They'd done the best they could, but Josef's heart sank as he studied the pale, unconscious Philippe and his stitched-together foot. They had done their best, but it wasn't enough. He was bound to lose that foot, and an amputee couldn't work, and if a man couldn't work…

His gaze was drawn out the window, to the chimney stacks, and a shudder ran the length of his body. But it stilled, and something in his eyes flashed. Friedrich noted the look with some alarm, but said nothing when Josef turned on his heel and left the infirmary.

There wasn't much to the so-called infirmary. It was cold and drafty, the only light supplied by meager flickering candles. The beds were little more than wooden slabs, padded with shreds of paper. The air was dank with the smell of waste, decay, and the sickly-smell of burning flesh. The infirmary was nearly empty, typhus having wiped out most of the weak and the sickly. There was a Soviet POW lying still and unmoving, a Hungarian Jew groaning softly, and a prisoner-made-doctor sitting quietly in a stiff chair, picking at a hangnail. The makeshift doctor didn't even bother to lift his head to look at Friedrich, who leaned against the wall beside Philippe, watching the door.

After a few minutes Josef came hurrying back, one hand stuffed into his pocket. His eyes shot to the prisoner-doctor, and he ordered him out. As the prisoner slunk out of the infirmary, Josef looked to Friedrich. "You're still here." There was a tone of surprise in his voice as he looked his fellow German over.

"Comedy night was canceled," Friedrich's reply was deadpan.

Josef blinked, and then hesitated, looking to Philippe with a troubled expression. He sighed. "Friedrich…I must ask you to keep what I'm about to show you an absolute secret. If they knew what I was doing…" He lifted up his finger and made a slicing motion across his neck.

Friedrich arched an eyebrow, but nodded. He came around to stand beside Josef as he withdrew a small vial from his pocket. The burgundy-colored liquid inside swilled slightly as he did so. Friedrich adjusted his glasses and squinted at the foreign substance. "What is it?"

"A top-secret project that could get all of us killed. Now shut up and watch."

Josef opened the vial and pressed his fingers to the mouth, tipping it over slightly to wet his fingers. Then he bent down and rubbed the substance over Philippe's ankle. The prisoner shivered and drew into himself, but didn't wake up.

And then, after a moment, the ankle began to heal itself. Skin came back together, stitches popping out as the flesh smoothed over. The slash became a scar, and then that scar, too, faded from existence. His ankle was whole and unblemished, even slightly pink in good health.

There was a sharp intake of breath and Friedrich took a step backwards. "I'm going to pretend I didn't see that." But curiosity got the best of him, and after a moment he was stammering, "W—what did you do?"

"A little idea struck me one night," Josef shrugged as he capped the vial and put it back in his pocket.

"What…what's in that?!"

"Oh, you would not believe how long it took me to get any of this right. Let's see, there's human blood, Australium—" he began to rattle off a few more ingredients, but Friedrich held up his hand.

"Australium? How did you smuggle—" he looked around and his voice dropped to a whisper "—how did you smuggle goddamn _Australium_ in here?"

"A guard owed me a favor for pulling his bad tooth," Josef shrugged, oddly nonchalant about the fact that he was currently in possession of one of the most coveted elements in the world.

"Josef, bringing Australium in here—you could get shot, or hanged—or both—and me along with you, if anyone realized—for God's sake, Josef, don't you realize what Australium does to you? It's a stimulant, yes, but the longer you expose yourself to it the crazier you get! Are you really willing to risk your sanity for this?! You'll be talking to birds before long! We'll have to stick you in the madhouse."

"We're already in the madhouse," Josef replied, expression darkening a bit.

Friedrich pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "Josef, do you realize that you're going to get us all killed? You've just discovered a way to bring a man back from the brink of death! Imagine if this formula of yours falls into the wrong hands—the Russians, the Americans!—"

"Horst and Mengele," Josef retorted, "Clauberg and Kremer. Imagine what this could do in their hands. A never-ending supply of…_test subjects_."

"Oh, spare me the sentiment, Pfaff! You're just as fascinated by medical experimentation as the rest!"

"That may be true!" Josef's voice raised an octave, and then dropped once more into a hushed, furious whisper. "I'm just as interested in forwarding the field of science and medicine, but not like this! I've never killed anyone!"

Something in Friedrich's eyes flashed. "You're walking a thin line, my friend."

Josef exhaled loudly and looked away, back out the window. Friedrich began to gnaw on his lip once more before speaking again. "Be careful. If not for yourself, if not for me, if not for this damn Jew…then for her."

Josef's eyes lowered to the ground. And then his mouth tightened into a hard line. He left with a curt 'Good night'. Friedrich was left alone to stand in the dark and ponder what he had just seen.

Josef was playing a dangerous game—too dangerous. If anyone found out what he had been doing behind the backs of their superiors, he could be executed…or worse.

For his own safety, Josef Pfaff had to go.

**…**

Josef was in considerably brighter spirits when he woke up that morning, humming a faint tune as he dressed for the day. He was eager to get to know Philippe—solve the mystery that was this man. He just hoped Philippe would be willing to open up to him. He finished off his morning routine by twirling his finger around his stubborn cowlick, making it a bit twisty. Still humming, he headed off to another long day of work, steeling his heart and his mind.

And then his body was frozen too, because Friedrich and a gaggle of his colleagues were waiting for him just outside the door. Josef's mouth went dry, face ashen. "Friedrich…what are you…"

"Your Jew is dead, Josef." Friedrich's voice was flat, disinterested, cold, and Josef's heart stopped. "The entire wing was liquidated this morning."

"That's—that's impossible!" Josef shook his head rapidly. Philippe had been healthy, Philippe had been whole when he'd seen him last! There would have been no reason to kill him, he could have worked!

Friedrich's demeanor remained chilled. "Your Jew is dead, Josef. And you failed to mention to me that he was part of an official investigation."Here Hans slid out from behind the doctor, eyes hard. "You interfered in places you should not have."

"You're out, Pfaff," Hans interjected, voice full of triumph, "you're being transferred."

"That was fast." Josef cocked an eyebrow as he looked back to Friedrich. His voice was calm once more, demeanor smooth. His heart, however, still hammered wildly against his chest, like an animal shoving against his chest, desperately trying to claw its way out.

"Wirths was in full agreement." Friedrich shrugged. "Your downward decline has been noticeable."

"Downward…decline?" Josef managed through gritted teeth.

"Mental health," Friedrich tapped the side of his head to demonstrate, " You're being transferred to a POW camp; somewhere with less stress. Stalag…Thirteen, was it? Or Fourteen? Well, it doesn't matter. Gather your supplies and get out."

Josef took a step forward, and so did Hans. Friedrich didn't move, eyes sliding from Schutzstaffel officer to doctor. "Do not cause a scene," he murmured, and behind the calm mien there was the faintest of pleas.

Josef smoothed out his uniform and nodded, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly. "Very well." He turned around once more, but Friedrich's voice stopped him short: "Hans, go with him. Make sure he doesn't cause any trouble."

Josef gritted his teeth and swallowed back a protest. He continued on slowly, stomach roiling with horror and frustration as he did so.

**…**

The case containing his battered old violin slammed shut, and Josef all but threw it into the meager pile of his possessions. Josef stalked around the room, scooping up his personal medical supplies and tossing them into a sack.

Hans leaned against the door, eyes bright with victory. The SS officer made a great show of checking his watch and yawned. "Hurry up, Pfaff—oh, sorry, Doctor Pfaff. Haven't got all day."

Josef closed his eyes and prayed for patience. He moved over to the nightstand, scooping up his framed picture of Joelle. Her immortalized smile calmed him somewhat, and it was with tender, gentle movements that he wrapped her photo up in rags and laid it down in his suitcase.

Hans watched the movement with interest. "Your wife is a Jew, isn't she?"

"Ex-wife," Josef corrected, "we were divorced by the time the war broke out." It had been her idea, to protect him from being targeted. It would also make her harder to track, if she needed to vanish—and vanished she had.

"Mmmmmmm." Hans made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. "Say, there's a notion around the boys that Jewish gals are half-animal. They say they got a line of fur from here," he pointed towards the middle of his chest, "to here." He drew a line to his crotch, eyebrows arched. "That true?"

Josef swallowed back a snarl. "As if you wouldn't know."

Hans shook his head. "They're all shaved by the time I get to see 'em." He sighed in a self-pitying way and looked out the window. "They're no fun. All dead-eyed and listless, can't get so much a moan out of 'em. Might as well be fucking rocks."

A vein began to throb in Josef's temple. He picked up a stray syringe, squinting at the liquid inside. Phenol? Where had this come from? Behind him Hans was still chattering away, obvious. Curious, Josef nudged the syringe of the needle, allowing a little phenol to spurt out onto the floor. He tightened his grip on the needle and turned around, hiding the object behind his back. "Ready," he croaked, clearing his throat.

Hans straightened up. "About time. C'mon, Pfaff." He turned on the heel of his boot.

He hadn't taken more than three steps when a gloved hand clamped around his mouth, and he was roughly dragged back into the bedroom. Hans tried to yelp and struggled forward, but he was dragged down into the ground. A sharp, pricking pain spread from his neck and his eyes widened in horror and realization. He thrashed forward, screams muffled by the hand covering his mouth. His eyes rolled back into his head and his struggles lessened. After another minute he was dead.

Josef yanked the needle out of Hans' neck, panting. "Always thought you were a little prick," he grunted, shoving the dead man off of him. He scrambled up, staring down at Hans. A rush of euphoria, of absolute power, was coming over him, and his cheeks flushed with excitement. So this is what it felt like to play God—to watch the light fade from someone's eyes and know that you had caused it, to command who lived and who died. He staggered backwards, the euphoria bubbling through his chest, into his throat, and before long he was laughing, howling madly and wiping the tears of mirth from his eyes.

"Josef—Josef!"

Someone was shaking him roughly, and the world came back into focus. He blinked at Friedrich, a little lost. Friedrich was staring him, and then the German's gaze moved to the still body of Hans. His eyes shot back to Josef. "You need to get out of here. Now."

When he stepped away Josef was still swaying slightly, dazed and drunk on exhilaration. Friedrich snapped his fingers to get his attention. "Come on."

Josef grabbed his suitcase, violin case, and, after a moment of consideration, a bonesaw he'd left on the desk. Friedrich arched an eyebrow but didn't make a comment. They walked shoulder-to-shoulder, pace calm, expressions unconcerned. As far as bystanders were concerned, nothing was wrong.

A standard-issue car with tinted windows was parked by the gates, and Friedrich barked at the driver to get ready to leave. He then turned to the iron-eyed Josef. "You need to run," he murmured, "get out of the country, get off the damn continent if you have to. Once Hans is found…" his voice trailed off and he took a deep breath, "they'll be after you. And keep this damn formula of yours secret."

"I'm going to perfect it," Josef replied, a hint of pride in his voice.

"Then you do that. But do not stop moving. If Mengele or the others catch you—"

Josef's eyes flashed. "One day Mengele is going to wake up with his skeleton missing."

Friedrich smiled a bit. "I'm not going to ask how you came to that conclusion. Now go." Out of his pocket he pulled a small pistol, pressing it into Josef's hand. Friedrich's gaze slid to the driver, who had just finished off his cigarette. Josef nodded in understanding. "Thank you."

Friedrich shrugged. "Well, I couldn't in good conscience just let you be shipped off to Stalag Thirteen. There's nothing but jokers there."

Josef slid into the backseat of the car as the driver crushed the cigarette underfoot and made his way back. The gun was resting by his thigh, and he ran his thumb over the barrel. "Good luck," he murmured. The faint spark of insanity was back in his eyes as he looked towards the front seat.

Friedrich nodded. "Don't look back." He slammed the door shut and waited for it to pull away, hands tucked into his pockets. The pale sunlight glinted off of his glasses, but he didn't move until the car had disappeared into the foreground, and the alarms had begun to sound behind him.

Meanwhile, Prisoner 276407 stood shivering in a line of fellow inmates, blinking at the sun dazedly and wondering if the previous night had just been a dream.

**…**

"I thought 'e was dead," Spy admitted quietly, studying his gloved hands. "I never imagined that 'e and Medic were the same man."

Sniper blinked the sleep out of his eyes. "If he saved yer life….why did ya run from Teufort?"

Spy sighed and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Because there are periods of time I'd rather not recall, Lawrence, and that was one of them. Truth be told, I was furious with 'im. I had been prepared to die, to become a martyr. Instead, I found myself alive. Funny thing about martyrs, you know—most people prefer theirs dead."

Silence fell for a moment and Sniper shifted, trying to find a comfortable spot. He looked back to the quiet Spy. His eyes fluttered shut and his head sank into the pillow. Breathing evening out, he just managed to mumble, "Why'd ya tell him?"

"What?"

"Why'd ya tell him….yer name?"

Spy licked his lips as he considered the question. "I wanted someone to remember me. Even if it was just a stranger, even if it was the enemy…I wanted someone to remember me as more than just a number."

There was no reply. Spy glanced back to Sniper, staring at the sleeping Australian. A corner of Spy's mouth twitched upwards. He curled up in the uncomfortable guest chair, and before long he, too, was asleep.

* * *

...

I struggled with writing this chapter, so any and all feedback you have would be greatly appreciated. :)

Up next: We're into the final stretch now, so all I'm going to say is: ex-mobsters. And robots.


	19. He Who Fights Mobsters

And we're back! Not too fond of this chapter, but I'll let you guys be the judge of that. ;3

Thanks again for all the great reviews, and super-duper special thanks to Belphegor, as always, for being such an awesome beta. :o)

* * *

_**Chapter Eighteen: He Who Fights Mobsters**_

It took another three days to get Sniper out of the hospital, during which time he forced Spy to call the Mundy residence and assure Dotty that, yes, everything was all right, and, no, there was absolutely no chance he was currently calling from a hospital and under _no _circumstances was her son injured. Whatsoever.

Spy could have done Sniper a favor and pointed out the glaring flaws in this phone call—namely his mother would see his cast and stitches in the instant he got home—but the painkillers were doing a number on the Australian, and it was all Spy could do keep him popping more than the prescribed amount.

The orange pill bottle jangled merrily in the Frenchman's pocket as he crossed his arms and stared at Sniper.

The Aussie copied the action, eyebrows arched. "I ain't sittin' in a damn wheelchair. Wheelchairs are fer cripples!"

Spy pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled loudly. The young nurse, used to dealing with crotchety old folk, smiled sympathetically. "Just until you get to the parking lot? And then you can walk! You don't even have to bring the wheelchair with you! It's just a precaution."

Sniper fell away into mutters about "I got two perfectly good feet, Sheila," but Spy nodded towards the nurse, mouthing a 'yes' and a 'thank you'. The nurse left to get a wheelchair, and Spy meandered over to Sniper, hands in his pockets. "You're looking much better."

Sniper shooed him away again. "Will you _stop_ hovering! Feels loike I'm gonna drop dead any second now!"

"Well, you might 'ave."

"I'd just Respawn! On the other side of the world, sure, but….wot?"

Spy's eyes had narrowed dramatically. "You really think you would just 'ave Respawned?"

"Erm…." Suddenly Sniper wasn't so sure. He shifted a bit, wincing as his stitches pulled.

"We're out of range of Respawn, Lawrence." Spy's tone was a mixture of concerning and condescending as he stepped forward again.

Sniper blinked slowly. "Ya…mean….I could've—and you would've—you might have—and I would've been…"

"Oui."

Sniper paled visibly, and then turned the slightest shade of puce. His head sank downwards towards his waist and he began to take slow, deep breathes, coming to grips with how close his brush with death really was.

Odd, Spy mused, Sniper was a fellow who had boasted time and again about his near-misses in the Outback, and there had never been a tone of fear in his voice. He hadn't feared death—because he had conquered it so many times, shown the Grim Reaper that he wouldn't go down without a fight. But then Respawn had taken that sentiment away—they were no longer conquering death, defying it through sheer skill and grit. They were circumventing death, sneaking past as quickly and quietly as thieves.

Respawn had given them immortality, and immortality had only made them more aware of their morality.

Spy considered the irony as the nurse came back with a wheelchair. This time, Sniper climbed into it with no hesitation, and stayed quiet and subdued all the way out to the still-splattered-with-mud Mundymobile.

Spy glanced his way as he climbed into the driver's seat. "Everything all right?"

Sniper nodded jerkily. "Got a cig?"

Spy obliged him, as well as the use of his lighter, and the sharp, spicy scent of imported cigarettes soon filled the van. Cigarette smoke billowed out of Sniper's nose and slowly he relaxed. "Thanks."

"For what?"

"Fer stickin' wif me. I know you ain't a fan of hospitals."

Spy shrugged. "Well, someone 'ad to babysit you." He flicked on the turn signal and pulled out of the hospital parking lot smoothly. He clucked his tongue loudly. "Just wait until your mother gets a 'old of you."

Sniper cringed inwardly at the thought, rolling his cigarette around his mouth. "Well, yer the one who lied ta her!"

"You're the one who told me to lie to 'er!" Spy snapped, incredulous.

"I didn't know Christmas from Bourke Street! Yer supposed to be the responsible one!"

"Me? What 'appened to 'be polite, be efficient'?"

"I'm the one who pisses in jars and throws it at people! I'm mentally incapacitated. Shouldn't listen to a word I say." Sniper sniffed, and his tone was so dry that Spy couldn't help but to laugh. Sniper's mouth trembled with the effort to withhold a smirk. "Ya should've known better, spook."

"Oh really? In case you 'ave not noticed, Lawrence, but I'm not exactly the portrait of a responsible, stand-up citizen either."

"Yeah, well, ya still don't piss in jars."

"You cannot use that argument every time!"

"You do!"

"Pardon me, but I think I 'ave also referred to your outstanding lack of personal hygiene several times over, as well as your general uselessness when it comes to being part of a team." Spy's voice was light and conversational as he spoke.

"Yeah, well, yer sneaky, conniving bastard! Who, I might add, almost got me killed!"

"Then we are in agreement."

"Yeah we are!"

"You're going to be the one to tell your mother what 'appened."

Sniper froze with pointer finger raised. Slowly his mouth clamped shut and he lowered his hand sheepishly. "All roight. But you gotta be the one who goes in first, jus' ta see how my dad's mood is."

"Oh, Lawrence—"

"Ah-ah-ah, let's not forget who almost killed who here. Permanently."

Spy huffed, knowing full well that Sniper would not be letting this go anytime soon, and nodded begrudgingly. "Fine. I'll make sure the coast is clear."

"Thanks. Prancin' wankah."

"Don't mention it, disgusting bushman."

**…**

"Dorothy? Where are Liz and Jack?"

"They went into town, dear."

"And Junior and Phil?"

"Still not back, dear."

Lawrence Sr. popped his head around the corner, watching Dotty. She was seated in her favorite armchair, sewing something together. He squinted slightly. "Where have they been?"

"Oh, they're in the hospital."

"HOSPITAL!" The elder Mundy swung around the corner, eyes widened in horror. He limped forward. "You didn't tell me they were in the hospital!"

"I didn't tell you because I'd knew you'd react exactly like this." Dotty chided, holding up the half-finished scarf. She examined it, apathetic to her husband, before setting it back down in her lap and looking to him. "Relax, Lawrence. They're both fine."

"How do you know? Did they tell you?"

"No. Philip seemed dead-set on telling me they weren't in a hospital at all. Junior probably put him up to it."

"Then how—"

"Suzy Michaels—you remember little Suzy Michaels?—she's working in the ER. She phoned me when they brought Junior in."

"What happened?!"

"Junior was attacked by a crocodile. He's all right, though."

Lawrence Sr. stared at her, dumbfounded. "Only that boy…" he muttered under his breath. "I bet that Frenchie was the one who pushed him into the croc's den."

Dotty clucked her tongue. "You don't give Philip enough credit, Lawrence! He's a good boy. Just…eccentric."

"Eccentric my arse!" Lawrence Sr. snapped. "If Junior is killing people for a living, then this man—"

"Philip."

"—Philip is probably some murderer as well! I bet that he's wearing that mask to hide his identity! Doesn't want to be known—doesn't want to be seen…" he collapsed down in on the couch, rubbing his hands together.

Dotty was still fully focused on her work, with her tongue sticking out a bit as she replied, "Come off it, Lawrence, he's wearing that mask for practical reasons."

"_Practical_ because he doesn't want to be caught!" Lawrence Sr. shot back, rubbing his arthritis-riddled hands in agitation.

Dotty shook her head in disapproval. "Silly old fool."

"Well, what is it, then?" he asked, incredulous.

She hesitated, and then shook her head. "It's not my place to say."

"Did he tell you?"

With an uncharacteristic scowl Dotty slammed her handiwork down into her lap. "No. He did not."

"Then who did?"

"I told you, Lawrence—" Dotty's voice was taut; "—it's not my place to say." After all, how could she explain that a mysterious Italian had just handed her a file containing Philippe's life story? And worse yet, how could she explain what was on that file?

Lawrence Sr. snorted. "I'm not letting either of them back into this house. Phil would probably murder us in our sleep…"

"He wouldn't, Lawrence. He's not some mad masked killer—"

"_Then what's he wearing the mask for_?"

Seeing that her husband was stuck in the rut and making no attempts to haul himself out of it, Dotty sighed loudly and shook her head. "He's got scars, Lawrence. He was telling the truth. Well, most of it, I suppose."

"_Most_?"

"He didn't get them from a blast incident."

Lawrence Sr. stared at her incredulously. "Then where did he…?"

"I told you, dear, it's not my place to say."

"All right, then. Who told you?"

She hesitated, weighing the risks and benefits of a reply very carefully. A little white lie could turn into a great big calamity, but she didn't want her husband to learn of Philippe's destroyed files either. "Junior did," she admitted in a low voice, "Philip told Junior, and he told me."

The elder Mundy sat back, satisfied. He began to shove tobacco into his smoking pipe, grumbling under his breath, and Dotty returned to her knitting. Everything was silent for a moment, and then a huge bang made them both jump.

"Odd," Dotty murmured, looking up slowly, "the wind must have shut the back door."

**…**

_No. No, no, no, no, no_. He must have heard wrong.

He must have.

Spy stumbled out the back door, mind reeling with shock. There was no way—the very thought was inane! Lawrence had sworn that he hadn't told a soul! Lawrence had promised to keep his mouth shut, and—

And he had been stupid enough to believe him.

Worse yet, if Lawrence had told his mother, who else had he told? Engineer? Scout? Soldier? His chest constricted, even as his heart began pounding in his ears. Who was he planning to tell?

Fury flashed, hot and red, and bile bubbled in his stomach. All but panting, he decloaked and stalked towards the Mundymobile, which was parked around the block from the Mundy house.

"Dad still threatenin' ta keep us outta the house…" Sniper's easy grin slid away as the furious Spy drew near. "Uh-oh. Wot did I do now?" He eased himself off of the hood of the Mundymobile, walking up to meet Spy.

"You," Spy managed through gritted teeth, "swore you weren't going to tell anyone about my heritage!"

Sniper stopped short, head tilting to the side as he processed Spy's words. "Come again?"

"Your mother knows, Lawrence! She knows about my face, my past!"

The Aussie's jaw dropped. "That's impossible! Who told her—"

"You did, apparently." Spy's tone went cold, and Sniper froze mid-sentence.

Frantically the Aussie thought back through all of his conversations with his mother. No, he hadn't said a word! Not even a slip of Spy's past had made it past his lips. Instantly he began to shake his head. "No, I didn't say a word! She must be mistaken—"

"I 'eard her, loud and clear. She said you told 'er."

Sniper's heart bottomed out somewhere into his stomach. He shook his head furiously. "You must've heard wrong, then. I didn't tell anyone!"

When Spy just sneered and looked away, the marksman scowled and stepped forward. "Wot's so important that ya keep hidin' anyways? The past is the past, spook! I thought we been through this!"

Spy pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling loudly. "It's a matter of principle, Lawrence. Spies do not trust easily. Spies do not go around blathering about their past. I took a calculated risk in trusting you. I trusted you not to tell anyone—"

"And I never did!" Sniper protested, eyes narrowing in anger. "Not a word, spook. You can trust me on that."

Spy kept his gaze averted, glaring daggers at a rhododendron bush. After a moment, Sniper's firm expression slipped. "You don't trust me."

Sighing again, Spy shook his head. He didn't bother with another reply.

Sniper scoffed again. He brought his good hand up, rubbing his stubbly face. He nodded, eyes flicking to the ground, seemingly in acceptance. After a moment he cleared his throat. "Y'know, spook, it don't matter. Not to me. Or my mum. Or to anyone. Nobody'd look at you funny because—"

"They would."

"They wouldn't!"

"And what would you know about it, Lawrence?"

"Plenty more than you might think. Funny thing is, Phil, yer not the only one who's had it rough!"

Spy laughed, low and mocking, and looked over his shoulder at the red farmhouse once more. "'ad it rough?" He repeated jeeringly. "Oh yes, you've 'ad it very rough, Lawrence, living in a comfortable house with a loving family—"

He was silenced when Sniper's good hand shot out, grabbing him by the lapels and pulling him close. "Listen," he snarled, "you might think ya got the monopoly on tragedy. And maybe ya do. But that don't make anyone else's troubles less important!"

"Lawrence, grow up! The only troubles you 'ave are daddy issues and Australian penis envy—URK!"

His head snapped backwards at such an alarming speed that for an instant he thought his neck was broken. And then Newton's third law snapped his head backwards his chest, and blood from his jaw splattered the furious Sniper.

The Australian hissed in pain and released Spy, shaking out his throbbing fist. Spy stumbled backwards, clutching his jaw and heaving with pain. The Frenchman spat out a glob of bloody spittle, and a shiny white tooth came with it. A stream of French swears left him through his swelling jaw. "… ENFOIRÉ! SALOPARD!"

"SELFISH PRICK!" At the same time he bellowed, Sniper's hand flew his side. Bright red blood coated his hand when he drew it back. Sniper's eyes widened in horror and pain and he stumbled backward, hissing as his stitches puckered. "Jesus Christ, look wot ya did!"

"Me?" Spy hissed, screwing his eyes shut as fiery pain licked his jaw. "ME?! Va te faire foutre! GO TO HELL, LAWRENCE!"

"I'LL MEET YA THERE!"

Pain overwhelmed him and Sniper leaned up against the Mundymobile, breathing hard and fast. When the pain subsided and he reopened his eyes, Spy was gone.

Regret stirred in his chest, as well as concern—because a pissed-off and injured Spy was the last sort of Spy an unsuspecting person should deal with—but then it was buried out by fury and indignation. Spy didn't trust him—after all this! Spy wouldn't take his word and trust it! Stupid, self-pitying bastard couldn't be bothered to look from his navel for anyone else. Well, he'd put up with enough! He was through trying to break past that cold mask and see something human. From now on, the spook was on his own!

Panting heavily, Sniper swung around and staggered back into the van. The bottle of painkillers was resting on the kitchenette counter. Sniper swiped it into his hand before reaching down for the first aid kit. He popped the kit open and took out a needle and thread, settling down on the Murphy bed.

He began to stitch himself together again, all the while popping painkillers with an alarming expertise.

So absorbed was he in his task that he didn't notice the black car slowly pulling out for behind a corner, and driving off after an invisible man.

**….**

The bartender set down another ice-cold Toohey's with a sympathetic expression. "This one's on the house, mate."

"Thanks," Spy, disguised as Engineer, mumbled. He set his lukewarm, half-finished beer down and picked up the fresh one. Instead of drinking it, however, he pressed it to his jaw, moaning as the cold sank into his flesh and bone, numbing the pain.

He screwed his eyes shut and sank down, resting his head on the bar. Misery coated him like a blanket.

Idiot Lawrence. He never should have been talked into coming here in the first place. France was for him, not Australia. What had he been thinking? The only thing Lawrence had done for him was drag up unpleasant memories. He was no help at all. Bloody useless Sniper, always poking into other people's business. Spy didn't need anyone digging through his mind, he was doing that well enough on his own, thank you very much! No, he was done putting blind faith in other people. He was going to be just fine on his own.

So fine was he on his own, in fact, that he didn't notice the tall, broad-shouldered Italian slipping into the pub and situating himself in a dark corner of the common room.

Spy sipped at his lukewarm beer, swilling the drink around in his mouth. The alcohol hit the gum where his tooth had been and he grimaced, swallowing quickly.

The bartender watched him sympathetically. "Don't worry, fella. The Sheila didn't deserve you anyway."

Spy rolled his eyes, but lifted his bottle in a salute in any case. He pressed his fingers into his eyelids, sighing. The last thing he needed was to get drunk and lost in an unfamiliar town, with no one he knew around—

There was a roar from the crowd behind him, and a voice cried out, "HEY JACK!"

Scratch that. The last he needed was to be drunk and lost in an unfamiliar town, with only Jack to aid him.

He kept Engineer's rotund frame hunched over, staring at his distorted reflection in the beer bottle.

Jack greeted his old friends with a cheerful hello and a slap on the shoulder, sitting down to enjoy a game of cards with the rest.

"Hey there, Jack! Where's the missus?"

"Off visiting an old friend of hers." Jack replied, disinterested. "Some darkie fella."

"Byron-Read? The one with the new pub?"

"Yeah, that's the one."

"Huh. And you're all right with him around your wife?"

Out of a morbid curiosity Spy lifted his head up a little, glancing over his shoulder. Jack was rolling an unlit cigarette around his mouth as he examined the cards he'd been dealt. "Liz can manage herself just fine. Larry taught her how to defend herself."

_Lawrence_, Spy found himself correcting silently.

"Larry?" Another exclaimed in surprise. "I haven't seen him in years! Thought he wasted away in some back alley!"

"Nah, he's been working some demolitions job in America."

"He still, y'know…" one lifted his finger and drew it across his neck, "offin' blokes?"

Jack nodded absentmindedly, and a collective shudder ran through the group. "He was always creepy," a woman muttered as she passed drinks out.

"I never liked him." Another man shook his head. "Never wanted to socialize with anyone, that one. Honestly I'm not surprised he went around the bend—y'know what they say, it's always the quiet ones."

Spy's grip tightened on his bottle, but the action was perceptible only to the bartender.

"The best thing Larry Mundy ever did for this town was leave it," a third commented, and a murmur of agreement followed. "Honestly, I feel a lot safer at night knowing he's not around. One day he's gonna snap—" he snapped his fingers to demonstrate "—and it'll be all over. They should lock crazies like him up!"

Nonsense, Spy chided in his head, Lawrence was an assassin, but he had his rules. He followed contracts—he didn't take a life arbitrarily. His mind flickered to the last sentence and automatically he frowned. Lawrence would go stir-crazy locked up, without sky or earth. His fingers began to drum against the bar in irritation.

Jack snorted as he folded his cards, deciding his hand wasn't good enough. "He's workin' with a bunch of freaks anyway. One of these days some fella even crazier than him is gonna pump him full of lead, and Larry Mundy will—"

_CRASH_.

A full mug of beer was shattered over Jack's head, and instantly he went down in a midst of glass and alcohol.

An undisguised Spy materialized behind him, to the shock of everyone present. The Frenchman adjusted his tie slightly as he eyed the crowd. His eyes flicked to Jack briefly and he snorted.

"'is name," he growled, "is _Lawrence_."

**…**

"Christian? You here?"

Lizzie rapped on the back door to the pub once, twice, three times, before sighing and letting herself in.

Kida was sitting by the back door, tail wagging at the sight of Lizzie. The dog gave a woof of greeting before slipping out the door, obviously in search of some alley cats to harass.

Music drifted down around the corner and Lizzie smiled a bit, following the sound.

_Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,_

_I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to…_

Bob Dylan's throaty voice drew her into the kitchen, where Lizzie stopped short, hiding behind the doorframe and smiling slightly. Christian was in full bartender regalia, dancing around the kitchen as he stirred something in a pot and rechecked his supplies for the night. He sang along to the lively song, all but bellowing the chorus.

_Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,_

_In the jingle-jangle morning I'll come following you…_

A feminine giggle stopped in his tracks and he glanced over his shoulders, eyebrows arched. When Lizzie waved shyly from the door, Christian flushed in embarrassment and darted over to the record player, snapping the needle off of the record. "Erm…pretend you didn't see that, okay?"

"Why not?" Lizzie chuckled, stepping forward into the light. "I think you're a marvelous singer!"

"I'm a better dancer, though!" To prove it, Christian did a quick jig of sorts, dancing his way towards the laughing Lizzie. "C'mon, girl, show me your moves!" He took by the hands and swung her around in a circle, twirling her into his arms in a bold fashion.

The instant she was resting against his chest, Lizzie's mind chided her, reminding her why she was here in the first place. Swallowing back a sigh, she straightened up and pushed him away gently. "Chris…we have to talk."

The mirth faded from Christian's eyes and slowly his shoulders slumped. "You figured it out, huh? And here I thought I was being subtle."

"Mum told me." Lizzie tried to smile, but the smile wobbled and then fell.

Christian staggered back, lowering himself down onto a barstool. "So, this is it, then. The part where you tell me that it's wrong and I can never see you again—"

"No, Chris! No, not at all!"

"Then what? You'll divorce Jack and come live with me?"

Lizzie looked away, troubled, and Christian began to rub the back of his neck, massaging the knots of tension out. "No," he answered for her, "you won't."

"I need Jack, Chris," Lizzie whispered, "I can't do this alone. I—the baby—"

"You could…" Christian started, but his sentence trailed off into silence. He took a deep breath. "Liz, is it better to be comfortable and miserable or poor and happy?"

"This isn't just about me, Chris! I have someone depending on me to make the right choice now!" Lizzie pressed a hand to her swollen stomach, eyes widening with tears. "I can't do this alone! I'm—I'm not s-strong enough..."

"Liz," Christian stood once more and moved towards her. Gently he planted his hands on Lizzie's face, wiping away a stray tear with his thumb. "You're doing what's best for your child. You're the strongest woman I know and—and I'm _sorry_ for putting you in such a position. I love you, and that means I would never, _ever_ do anything to hurt you—"

It was Lizzie, surprisingly enough, who breached the gap between them.

She took his shirt in fistfuls and slammed her lips to his with such a force that he stumbled backwards, banging into a cupboard. Her hands curled into his hair, even as his arms slipped down around her back, pressing his fingers into the small of her back. Lizzie pressed herself into him, baby belly bumping into Christian's abdomen. Her heart was hammering so loudly in her chest that _he_ could feel it, and he began to massage her back, trying to comfort her. His mind was reeling from shock and excitement and adoration—this was it, what he'd wanted for years.

But beneath all that was fear, fear stirring all the while, because if anyone were to discover them, it would be all over in an instant.

And in the dark warmth of the womb, the baby felt its mother's wild stir of emotion, and shifted eagerly in response.

The baby kicked with a stunning strength and Lizzie pulled back, gasping in a mixture of surprise and pain She murmured to the child under her breath, rubbing her belly in small, soothing circles. Then she sniffled and looked back to Christian. "Sorry," she murmured, "s-sorry, I didn't—"

"It's okay," Christian whispered, "it's okay. Everything is okay. It's our secret. Nobody noticed. Only Kida saw."

"Kida left," Lizzie whispered back, chin wobbling in a mixture of laughter and sobs.

"Then it was just us," Christian smiled, "just this once. Everything is going to be okay, okay?"

Lizzie nodded quickly. "Okay."

He stepped forward and wrapped both arms around her in a supporting hug. Lizzie gripped him back tightly, burying her head into his shoulder.

And there they stood for a long, long time, the setting sun washing through the windows and bathing them in warm red.

**…**

For someone who hadn't been in a bar fight in nearly ten years, Spy couldn't help but mentally pat himself on the shoulder for a job well done.

He limped along, one foot dragging slightly and his jaw even more swollen and throbbing than before. His suit was torn in places, his tie had been lost in the fray, and on one of his gloves there was a singed hole that he was confident wasn't there before.

Nevertheless, he'd thrashed more than one fool, and he was still on his feet.

Lawrence was going to owe him triple for this (it didn't seem to occur to him that he technically wasn't speaking to Lawrence anymore).

Taking a slow, deep breath to steady his nerves, Spy collapsed against the alleyway wall. He patted around for his cigarette case, and then cursed under his breath when he realized he didn't have it. His watch was missing too, he noted with alarm. Both must have been lost in the barroom brawl.

His legs were trembling from exhaustion, but Spy fought back the urge to collapse and straightened up once more. He smoothed out his shirt and sniffed, preparing to limp back to the pub.

The sun had just set. Purple painted the sky, and a few stars shimmered overhead. Nevertheless the day's warmth still permeated the air, allowing small droplets of sweat to roll down his face and under his arms. It was the perfect sort of night to spend camping, Spy mused, rather than crumpled, bloodied and alone in an alleyway.

The pain had subsided, like a scabbed-over wound, and that was when Spy felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

He was being watched.

Bereft of weapons—those had been left in the van during his hasty retreat—as well as a cloaking device, Spy spun on his heel slowly, clenching his fists in preparation for a fight.

The alley behind him was dark and seemingly devoid of life. "Who's there?" he demanded. "Show yourself!"

A faint bark was his reply.

Spy's tense shoulders slumped as Kida trotted out of the darkness, tail wagging and tongue lolling out of her mouth. She settled down on her haunches a few feet from Spy, tail thumping against the ground. She woofed once more in greeting.

Spy breathed out in relief. "Kida. What are you doing 'ere?"

Kida's head tilted to the side and she barked again, ears perked. Spy hesitated, and then inched forward. He crouched down before Kida and held out his palm. She sniffed it curiously and then licked his hand a little. Spy's hand came up to rub behind her ear. "Are you lost too, petite?" He murmured.

Kida's wet nose nudged him a bit, and his smile grew a bit more genuine.

Then a low growl escaped her, and Spy's hands froze. His smile dimmed and he sat back. "What's the matter?"

Kida sprang up once more and backed away, hackles raised, ears flattened, and teeth bared. Another intimidating growl left her and Spy stood, holding up his hands and backing away. "Easy now, easy…"

She barked, and Spy stumbled backwards—right into the barrel of a gun.

Giancarlo smirked and cocked the pistol. "Buona sera, Signor Vidal," he purred, "I've been looking everywhere for you."

Spy's heart stopped and he swallowed hard. "'ave you?" He glanced over his shoulder, well-aware of the loaded gun pressed between his shoulder blades. He recognized Giancarlo in an instant, and his mind flickered back to his factory break-in with horror.

Giancarlo glared back at him. Dried blood coating his temple, indicating his own role in the impromptu bar fight. "You're a hard man to track down, Vidal."

"That's the point," Spy replied, struggling to keep his voice even and unconcerned. His eyes flicked back to Kida, who was still snarling, ready to pounce on the newcomer. "Down, girl," he murmured.

"Smart man," Giancarlo quipped, pressing the gun juts a bit harder into Spy's back, "let's not do anything stupid now, eh?"

Spy looked back to him. "What do you want?"

"We need to go someplace quiet and…answer a few questions."

The Frenchman snorted. "Normally I'd ask that you buy me dinner first—" he hissed as Giancarlo snatched his arm, squeezing it tightly and snapping his hand behind his back. "My friends will find me," he panted, "they'll know I went missing."

"You left your last amico bleeding out in a crappy van." Giancarlo retorted. "No one knows where you are. No one is going to find you."

Spy forced himself to keep his breathing paced even as Giancarlo twisted his arm painfully. He slid one leg out and around, tensing and steadying his weight. Kida took a step forward, tail puffed out in an attempt at imitation.

"Now," Giancarlo snarled, repositioning his grip on the gun so that he was gripping the barrel, "come quietly, and no one has to get more hurt than necessary."

"Come quietly?" Spy panted, shifting his stance slightly, "Monsieur, you underestimate the French!"

With that, he spun on his heel and snapped the back of his hand into Giancarlo's jaw. The Italian's head snapped to the side and he bellowed with pain, even as Spy tackled him around the mid-riff. The gun clattered from his hand, unnoticed as the two men struggled for dominance.

Giancarlo swore loudly in Italian and grabbed a fistful of dirt from the ground, throwing it into Spy's face. The Frenchman yelped in surprise and screwed his eyes shut, wiping at them furiously. Giancarlo took the moment of distraction to grab Spy by the throat, throwing him to the ground.

The blinded Spy bellowed in pain, grappling wildly as Giancarlo's hand locked around his throat. Spy wrenched his hands off of him and scrambled away, just as Kida's sharp jaws locked onto Giancarlo's shoulder.

Giancarlo roared in shock, struggling to get a hold on the dog as her teeth sank further and further into his flesh. With an all-mighty shout he took Kida's fur in his fists and flung the small dog off of him—straight into the unforgiving alleyway wall. Kida yipped as she collided with the stone and sank to the ground, unmoving.

At the sound of Kida's cry Spy glanced over his shoulder, guilt shooting threw him when he saw his rescuer still on the ground. For an instant he hesitated, hand inches away from the discarded gun, and it was that split-second of hesitation that Giancarlo needed.

The freely-bleeding Italian grabbed Spy by the waist and threw him to the ground once more, knocking the breath out of him. Pinpoints of light sparked across Spy's vision, and he gasped as a heavy weight threw itself onto his chest, constricting his breath even more. He bucked, and when that failed to throw off the enormous weight, he sucked in a breath to shout for help—only for another weight to be slammed against his mouth.

Giancarlo snarled wordlessly as Spy struggled against the hand clamped against his mouth. He slammed Spy's head into the pavement once, twice, three times, grinning darkly as the light dimmed out of the Frenchman's eyes. "You're lucky I need you alive," he panted as Spy went slack beneath him, eyes rolling into the back of his head. "Well…" he grimaced as he reached for his gun, "just able to talk, really." He reached forward and swiped the balaclava off of Spy's face, tossing it to the side thoughtlessly.

His good hand pressed the gun to one of Spy's kneecaps, preparing to blow it off, when a low growl stopped him in his tracks.

Kida was climbing to her feet, shaking her head as if to clear it, and staggering towards Giancarlo, mouth rippling with the force of her snarls.

Giancarlo's eyes widened in panic and he glanced towards the unconscious Spy, back to the approaching Kida, and then back to Spy, mind racing with choices.

Kida's haunches tensed and she lunged forward, prepared to defend her human friend.

And a split-second later, a gunshot broke the stillness of encroaching night.

* * *

The bad news is that you'll have to wait a bit for the next chapter.

The good news is that we only have six chapters to go!

Wait...

Up next: "LAWRENCE MUNDY JUNIOR, YOU OPEN THIS DOOR RIGHT NOW OR SO HELP ME GOD I WILL BREAK IT DOWN!"


	20. Get Thee To A Factory

There will come a day when I apologize for the groan-inducing punny references that are my chapter titles

BUT TODAY IS NOT THAT DAY

* * *

_**Chapter Nineteen: Get Thee to A Factory**_

"I'm telling you, Liz, some joker was just setting off Yuletide firecrackers early."

Lizzie sipped at her cold water and frowned before dipping her fingers into the liquid. She withdrew a cube of ice and pressed it to her inflamed neck, rubbing it around her warm flesh. "Chris, would you _please_ go check? I went on too many hunting trips with 'rence and Dad as a kid not to be able to recognize a gun going off."

Christian hesitated. He glanced around the empty pub, withheld a sigh, and finally nodded. "All right. Watch the pub for me, okay?"

"The pub and all the patrons," Lizzie assured him, allowing a stray ant to crawl onto her finger before she leaned over, touching her hand to the floor and allowing the insect hitchhiker to scuttle off.

His smile was wry even as he trotted out the back door, shaking his head and muttering under his breath about jumpiness. He poked his head around the door, looking back and forth down the alley. When he saw nothing but crates and trash and one bum out-cold in a drunken stupor, he snorted. "Nothing here, Liz—"

A faint whimper cut him off.

Christian's head snapped up once more. He stumbled out into the alley, following the faint, familiar sound with a pounding heart. He swallowed hard, praying that he was wrong as he rounded the corner. "KIDA!"

The instant her human came into view, Kida collapsed in a heap, wobbly legs giving out beneath her. Her tail thumped against the ground slightly even as Christian knelt down beside her, gasping in horror. Red fabric was hanging from her jaws, and she spat it out onto the ground, panting.

Her beautiful white fur was matted with blood and gore, and a long trail of blood traced her staggered path back to the pub. Sickened, Christian looked back to Kida with tears in his eyes. "Oh, _Kida_…"

Kida looked up to her human, tail still wagging faintly, and lifted her head, giving his hand a small lick of comfort. She rested her head down again, breathing in short spurts.

Christian's fingers worked through the tangled and bloodied fur to find the gaping bullet-hole in her side. Stomach heaving, tears trickling from his eyes, he moved his bloodied hand up to rub behind Kida's ear—her favorite spot. "Good girl," he whispered, "good girl, Kida. It's okay now…it's okay."

Kida seemed to smile. Her eyes closed and she went limp under Christian's steady hand. It took a few more seconds for him to realize that she was no longer breathing.

A strangled cry rose up in his throat, and he buried his face into Kida's fur, wetting it with tears. His heart had been roughly torn in two, his mind reeling away from shock and horror and confusion. Who would shoot such a sweet, innocent dog? Who could do such a thing? Sobs racked his body and he shook his head back and forth. "Kida…Kida _no_…"

He was only jolted out of the haze of pain and confusion when a hand rested on his shoulder. Christian glanced up, blinking past his tears to stare at Lizzie. "Someone…someone did this…"

The sorrow was fading away now, replaced with the hot coils of anger. Someone had done this—taken his Kida away from him. He struggled to remain grounded, to remain calm, even as that anger dispelled the haze around his mind, and his blood boiled with rage.

Lizzie nodded silently and held out the red fabric Kida had been carrying.

Christian took it, running his fingers over the soft, flexible fabric and poking his fingers through the odd holes in the mask. "This belongs to Phil," he breathed. "This is his mask."

"Is…" Lizzie wiped away a stray tear hastily, "is Phil is trouble?"

"Either he's in trouble—" Christian's voice darkened, the grip on the mask shaking with rage "—or he's going to be."

**…**

"LAWRENCE! LAWRENCE OPEN UP! WE KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE!"

"Nobody's…urk…home!"

Lizzie scowled and pounded her fist against the Mundymobile's door. "LAWRENCE MUNDY JUNIOR, YOU OPEN THIS DOOR RIGHT NOW OR SO HELP ME GOD I WILL BREAK IT DOWN!"  
A brief period of silence followed, and then the unmistakable click of a door being unlocked sounded. Lizzie breathed out in relief, while Christian just stood behind her, sullen and still covered with Kida's blood. Lizzie planted her hands on her hips and was about to give her brother the lecture of his life, when he finally opened the door. "LAWRENCE! What happened?!"

Sniper was an absolute wreck. He swayed as he stood in the doorway, gaze unfocused even as he squinted at his visitors, aviators missing. His brown hair was flyway and stuck up in tufts, like that of a bedraggled kitten. The wife-beater he wore was stained yellow beneath the armpits, and pink across the abdomen. When he shifted, the too-small shirt lifted slightly, revealing the raw and ruined stitches. The smell of stale alcohol wafted around him like a cloud.

Lizzie's eyes widened. "Oh, Lawrence…"

"M'all right," Sniper ran his hand under his nose, leaning up against the doorframe. He looked to Lizzie, eyes glazed. "Wotcha want—OI!"

For Lizzie had bounded up the steps of the van, forced her brother back inside, and slapped him so hard across the face that the _thwack!_ could be heard outside by Christian, who grimaced in pity.

Sniper raised a hand to his stinging face, slowly looking back to Lizzie in amazement. "Wot the hell was that fer?"

Lizzie didn't hear the question, however, because she had spotted the pill bottle resting innocuously on the floor by the bed. Eyes flashing with rage, she shoved Sniper aside and grabbed the bottle, examining the half-empty inside. "How many did you have?"

"Erm…I dunno…"

She was back on him in an instant, grabbing his lean chin and forcing his eyes to hers. She steered him to the Murphy bed and pushed him down, staring at him all the while. "Lawrence," she managed through gritted teeth, "_how many did you take_?"

"Not too many!" Sniper protested, trying to squirm out of her grasp. "Jesus Christ, girl, I need those! I ain't exactly in the best of shape here! HEY!"

Lizzie released him, moved to the kitchenette, and poured the contents of the bottle down the sink. Flushed with adrenaline, she wheeled around and threw the empty bottle at her brother. It hit him square in the forehead and he yelped in pain.

"YOU BASTARD!" Lizzie threw her hands into the air, stomping back and forth in front of him. "You _know_ you can't be doing this, Lawrence! It's not healthy!"  
"Damn it, Liz, I can't move one arm and a croc nearly tore me ta pieces! Give me a break!"

"No, I will not." Lizzie's voice was quiet and cold and she stopped in tracks, looking to her brother with the chilled fury only a mother was capable of. "I will not give you a break because while you were in here, getting drunk and high and feeling sorry for yourself, _something_ happened to Phil!"

That caught his attention. Sniper looked up instantly, the glaze over his eyes melting away. "What?"

Christian took this as his cue to enter. He across over to Sniper in a few long strides, holding out the balaclava. "Someone shot Kida. She had this in her mouth when I found her."

Incredulous, Sniper took the mask in his hand, running his thumb over the fabric. He swallowed hard. "Is Kida all right?"

"She's dead."

The reply was flat and emotionless, a mere statement of the facts, but Sniper knew better than to think Christian wasn't mourning. He was suddenly light-headed and dizzy, but he wasn't sure whether that was the effect of the painkillers or the shock. He blinked, trying to concentrate as the van slid in and out of focus. "I'm sorry," he murmured. He leaned forward, rubbing the back of his neck.

Christian just stared at him. "Where's Phil?"

"I don't know. We had a row and he split." Damn spook. He couldn't take his eyes off the Frenchman for five minutes!

Sniper took a deep breath and straightened up. "Take me to the scene of the crime."

**…**

His entire body quivered in protest as he knelt down, but Sniper forced the pain out of his mind, eying the blood splattering the ground. They had followed Kida's blood trail to another alleyway, this one cramped and dusty and bloodied with _someone's_ blood.

The largest splatter belonged to Kida, he noted. But there was very small pool of blood a foot or so away, and Sniper inched towards it. Out of the blood poked a few odd strands, and when Sniper withdrew one a small patch of fabric came with it.

Sniper pulled Spy's balaclava out of his jacket pocket and rummaged it around to the back. There was a definite stiffness to it—a wet that had dried—and a small hole was stained purple around the edge. Sniper put the bloodied fabric to the hole and frowned. "Phil's hurt. Bad."

"Did…did Kida attack him?" Christian's voice was hoarse as he spoke.

Sniper shook his head. "Nah, this…" he rubbed the balaclava through his fingers, still crouched, "this was blunt force trauma. Someone wanted Spy down for the count…"

_Why didn't you cloak, Phil?_ Sniper asked him silently, gnawing on his lip. _Why didn't you run if you thought you would lose? _

He stood, gasping as his stitches stretched and puckered. Spy was a scrapper, but he was no fool. He wouldn't risk a fight unless he was absolutely sure he could win. And with no Respawn…

Sniper's stomach plummeted to his feet, bounced back up to his throat, and then settled uncomfortably somewhere in his midriff.

There was no Respawn serving as a safety net now.

"Someone's got it out fer Phil," Sniper muttered, looking to Lizzie and Christian. "We need to find him, now!"

"Where do we start looking?" Lizzie stepped forward, calm despite—or perhaps because of—everything.

Sniper steadied himself and looked to Christian and Lizzie. They were staring back at him expectantly, and that's when the thought struck Sniper. There was no RED here. No Scout, no Demoman, no Heavy—no one he could call upon for aid. No team with which to coordinate a plan. He only had Lizzie and Christian, who were civilians. They weren't hunters, not like he and Spy. They knew nothing of the danger that was his reality. He had to protect them too.

He had to _lead_.

And for an instant he was reluctant. He was no leader. He wasn't Medic, who could quell a crowd with a steely glare, or Engineer, who could knock common sense into all of them. He wasn't even Soldier, who got them to pay attention through sheer loudness! He was going to make a mistake, he'd blunder and fail, and they'd never find Phil and the Frenchman would be dead and gone forever and it would be all his fault—

Lizzie's fingers lighted over his arm, and pulled him back into the here and now. "Lawrence," she murmured, well aware of that his mind had been elsewhere, "where do we start?"

There could be no time for second-guessing.

"Chris," Sniper looked his way, "yer alone, yer angry, yer in pain. Where do ya go?"

Christian bobbed his head back and forth as he thought. "The pub," he replied faintly, "I'd need a drink."

"Which one's closest?"

"O'Malley's is just around the corner."

"Then we'll start there."

There was a new edge to his voice, Lizzie marveled, as her brother turned on his heel and limped away. There was a tautness, some crispness that hadn't been there before. He was in his element here, and once Lizzie recognized that she followed him without hesitation.

A great deal of chaos and confusion greeted them at O'Malley's—the bartender was shooing a handful of weary, scratched-up stragglers out the entrance with a scowl. "Go on! And don't come back 'til you've got enough to pay for my broken window, ya bunch of bogans!" He dusted his hands off and glared at the last of the idlers until they disappeared around the corner. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the approaching trio. "Sorry folks, we're closed for the night. We had a bit of a…commotion."

Sniper eyed the wreckage of shattered glass, broken tables, spilled beers, and handful of unconscious patrons on the floor. Oh, this was the work of a Spy all right. He took a deep breath, arm wrapped around his abdomen in an attempt to ease the pain, and limped forward. "I'm lookin' fer a bloke. Probably the one who started the whole commotion—"

"JACK!"

Sniper was shoved aside as Lizzie rushed forward, grabbing Jack as he staggered out of the entrance with a slab of cold meat pressed to his eye. "What happened?"

Jack, having spotted Sniper, ignored her question. He started for Sniper. "Your damn Frenchman, that's what happened! He attacked me and destroyed the pub!"

"Well," the bartender muttered under his breath, "he had help."

Sniper turned back to the bartender, gaze intent. "What happened, exactly?"

Jack made to answer, but the bartender cut him off with a wave of his hand. "Can it, Williams. You took one too many blows to the head tonight to think straight. Now, Jack here and a few of his buddies were gossiping about some fellow, uh, Lawrence somebody or whoever—"

"Oh really?" Lizzie's eyebrows flew up into her hairline and she cast a sidelong, critical glance at her husband, who had taken an enormous interest in the pavement.

"Yep." The bartender nodded firmly. "Anyway, outta nowhere, this masked fellow just appears and BAM!" He raised his fist and swung it sharply towards the ground. "Smashed Jack here over the head with a huge mug of beer. S'pity, that's expensive. Everything sort of…went downhill quickly after that."

"Was he hurt? The masked fella?"

The bartender shrugged. "He didn't leave looking like he'd won the lotto, that's for certain."

Sniper swallowed hard and reached forward, grabbing the bartender's shoulder with his good hand. "Didya see anything else? Anyone else? Please, it's important!"

The bartender rubbed his chin. "Hmm….come to think of it, I did see Giancarlo here. Y'know, the big Italian bloke?"

Sniper's heart fluttered down somewhere into his stomach, where the acid promptly shriveled it up and consumed it. He nodded. "Yeah. I know Giancarlo."

"Well, he's not exactly a regular here. Took a few blows himself in the brawl, but he escaped shortly after your Frenchman did. I thought it was odd, I mean, Giancarlo doesn't really strike me as the type to back down from a fight."

Silently Sniper was forced to agree. "Did…did the masked fella leave anything here? Anything at all?"

"Yeah," the bartender nodded, one hand automatically digging into his pocket, "this dropped out of his pocket at one point. And then some fella snatched this off his wrist—don't think he noticed…"

He presented the cigarette case and the watch to the dismayed Sniper, who took them in his good hand and sighed. "Thanks." He turned to look at Christian, Lizzie, and Jack. "We need to get back to the house," he murmured in a low voice.

Jack opened his mouth in protest, but a glare from Lizzie silenced him.

"Everything all right?" the bartender ventured, glancing back at Sniper's firm expression. "Is your friend in trouble?"

"A whole heap of it," Sniper assured.

**…**

The front door flew open with an all-mighty bang. Sniper was the first one through the threshold, making a beeline for the kitchen. "Mum! MUM!"

Dotty, recognizing the tone of a child in trouble, appeared in an instant. "Lawrence! What on earth happened to you—"

"No time, Mum," Sniper paused, electric jolts of pain skittering through his body. He took a deep breath and rushed on, "Mum, who told you about Phil?"

Dotty blinked, puzzled. "What are you on about, dear?"

Sniper took his mother by the shoulder and steered her gently down into a spare seat. He crouched down in front of her, expression as deadly as the plague. "Mum," he repeated, voice soft and low, "who told you about Phil's scars? You have to tell me, _please_."

She bit her lip and sighed. "An Italian gentleman came to the door the day you and Phil left. He gave me a file…"

Sniper's head dropped, as if the weight of the revelation was crushing him. When he looked back up to his mother, his eyes were wild with desperation. "Did you read it?"

She nodded, and then added, "I burned it immediately after. No one else read it."

Sniper reached over and gave her hand a firm squeeze. "Thank you."

"Is Phil in trouble?"

Sniper swallowed hard and nodded. Dotty exhaled slowly. "Oh dear. Do you know where he is?"

"That Italian bastard's got him," Sniper murmured, "but I just don't know _where_. The clock's tickin', Mum. Please, do you remember anything else?"

"I—wait." Dotty rose out her seat, eyes brightening. "Wait right there. I'll be right back." She bustled out of the room, just as Lizzie, Christian, and Jack entered. Sniper sank down into the chair previously occupied by Dotty, breath coming through gritted teeth. Tears of pain pricked the corners of his eyes but he forced them back.

"Mundy? You need anything?"

"Water."

Christian obliged him, but when the glass was pressed into his hand, Sniper didn't drink. Instead, he dipped his fingertips in the water and then pressed his wet fingers to his ruined abdomen. He began to clean the crusted blood off of his skin, but a cool hand lying across his stopped him. Sniper glanced up into Lizzie's soft blue eyes, easing up as she took a washcloth to his wounds. "Are you going to be all right?"

"I have to be," Sniper whispered back, hissing in pain.

Lizzie smoothed his sweat-soaked hair away from his forehead and planted a small kiss on his forehead before stepping back. Dotty reentered, clutching a small business card in her hand. "The gentleman who…stopped by gave me this card." She flipped it through her fingers and handed it to Sniper, pretending not to notice the raw gap in his side.

Sniper blinked and his eyes narrowed as he took in the slightly bent business card. "Giancarlo Serafini. Yeah, Mum, I know—that's the guy—"

"Look harder, dear."

Sniper squinted, wobbling in the chair slightly as he did so. Staring back at him in shimmering gray were the small initials _GI_.

"I know where Phil is," he breathed. He stood quickly, so quickly that the room wavered and spun.

Christian forced him back down into the seat, expression grim. "Mundy, you're in no position to be leading a rescue party."

"But—"

"That's why I'm going with you."

Sniper nearly melted in relief. He nodded before looking to Jack. "You're comin' too."

"Me?" Jack spluttered, expression indignant. "After Phil—"

"_You're coming_."

The vicious growl sent Jack cowering. Sniper stood, ignoring the pain. He staggered forward and Jack stumbled backwards, but the bushman had him in an instant, grabbing him by the collar and slamming him against the wall. He leaned in, breath hot and foul, and snarled into Jack's ear, "You are coming, and so help me _God_ if you don't cooperate every step of the wall _I will personally escort you to the gates of Hell_."

"Lawrence," Lizzie's voice was light, even conversational, "put him down."

For Jack was dangling off of the floor slightly, the tips of his shoes wiggling in the air. Slowly Lawrence lowered him back to the ground and released him, stepping backwards. "Are we clear?"

"Yes," Jack muttered in return, tugging at his jacket.

Dotty had suddenly taken a deep and abiding interest in a spider-web in the corner of the kitchen. "Lawrence," she began, almost absentmindedly, "the key to your father's ammunition closet is upstairs in my jewelry box. In case you need it."

**…**

Between Sniper and Christian they had enough guns and ammo to satisfy a small army. The bushman led the way to the van, black long coat draped around his lanky frame, Akubra hooding his eyes from view. He presented a grim, ominous figure, and that was why Lizzie hesitated before approaching him.

"Lawrence! Lawrence, wait! This is getting too far out of hand!" She froze when Sniper whipped around, sudden fear flashing across her features. She recovered from her cringing, but still her hands wrung uselessly. "You don't need to go killing anyone, Lawrence! Please, just call the police, let them handle it!"

"Liz," Sniper began, voice as taunt as skin over a drum, "I can't get anyone else involved in this. If that pasta-eatin' schmuck has files on Phil, then they'll probably end up arresting him! This is between us, and that's how it's gonna stay."

He turned to leave, but Lizzie caught his hand once more. "I don't want you to get hurt," she admitted in a whisper.

"Liz, I ain't gonna get hur—"

"Not just physically, Lawrence! If Dad finds out where you went, with all of his old guns…"

The idea seemed to have occurred to Sniper, for his nostrils flared in an exhale of breath. He gnawed on his bottom lip for an instant before shrugging. "I'm willin' to take that chance."

He started to slide out of her delicate grip once more, but she tightened it, stopping him in his tracks. "Lawrence," Lizzie's expression hardened, "I want to go with you."

Sniper angled his head slightly so that he was studying her. "No."

"But—"

"No buts, Lizzie. This is dangerous. Someone could get hurt."

"Yeah, using Dad's old hunting rifles," Lizzie retorted, expression deadpan. She folded her arms across her chest and glared up at her brother. "I want to come with you."

"Over my dead body!"

"That can be arranged," she snarled, shifting her stance slightly. "My brother, my husband, and my best friend are going off to on some grandiose rescue mission, and you expect me to just sit at home and fret like some old nursemaid!"

"I expect you," Lawrence murmured, steering her away from the van as tactfully as he could, "to keep yourself and that baby safe. We'll be back soon." He hugged her swiftly and darted to the van, leaving her alone.

Christian sat in the driver's seat, grip tight on the wheel and eyes locked on forlorn Lizzie. "Let her come, Mundy."

Both Jack and Sniper stared at him in horror. "What?!"

"Let her come. I'll keep her safe." He risked a sidelong glance at his oldest and dearest friend, who struggled internally for a moment before swallowing hard.

"If anything—_anything_—happens to her, it is on your head."

Christian nodded in understanding before poking his head out the window. "Lizzie! C'mon, girl, don't just stand there looking like a bump on a log!"

She jumped in surprise at being addressed and then grinned. When she entered the van she took a seat on the Murphy bed and folded her hands on her lap. "I won't move from this spot, I promise."

Sniper managed a "yeah right" before the sudden lurching of the van caught him off-guard. Christian grinned in half-apology as the van slid forward and out the driveway.

Lawrence Sr.'s battered old truck came swerving in just as the van came swerving out, and all the elder Mundy caught a glimpse of was Lizzie waving cheerfully from the window. He parked in a swift, sudden motion and limped out the van, balancing tray of clay flower pots. "What's all that about, then?"

Dotty was standing on the porch, examining her drooping flowers. "What was that, dear?"

"Where are all the children going?"

"Oh, off to the GI factory to save Phil's hide. I let them borrow some of your guns, I hope you don't mind too terribly—"

An all-mighty crash cut her off. Shards of pottery went skittering every which-way, but Lawrence Sr. only had astonished eyes for Dotty. "WHAT?!"

Dotty clucked her tongue and shook her head. "Sit down, you old fool, this is going to take a while…"

**…**

"Bia? The Boss just called. He's at the airport and he needs you to pick him up."

Bianca's head drooped into exasperation for a moment before she straightened up, muttering under her breath about "old fool is too proud to call a damn taxi." She slipped on her coat and grabbed her purse, nodding at Blake as she left. "Don't do anything too stupid while I'm gone."

"Ma'am yes ma'am," the blond muttered darkly under his breath. He gave the exiting Bianca a none-too-polite one-fingered salute before tucking his hands into his pockets, strolling over to join Delmond at the large computer interface. The Texan was reclining slightly in the office chair, watching Giancarlo onscreen.

Delmond shifted and stretched. He glanced towards Blake, who smiled nervously, and then grunted. "I'm going to make some food. Nothing like dinner and a show." He stood and offered the seat to Blake, who took it in an instant. "_Don't touch anything_," he growled.

"Yeah, yeah…"

"What was that, son?"

"Erm…yes, sir."

"Good."

The Engineer clapped his protégé on the shoulder (the boy wincing at the excessive force) and left, whistling some old American tune as he did so. Silence fell, and Blake's gaze flickered to the screen, brow furrowing as the scene downstairs unfolded before him.

Movement in another screen caught his attention. The long black company car was pulling out of the front gate. He watched the retreating car, chin resting in his hand, and when it finally disappeared off-screen his gaze went to the main computer again. After a few minutes, however, another car entered the side screen. Puzzled, Blake swiveled around to watch the approaching van. The battered, filthy vehicle looked oddly familiar, and when he finally placed it his eyes widened before shooting back to the main screen.

Heart racing, he slowly leaned over and pressed the button that would open the main gates. Blake began to gnaw on his bottom lip, weighing his options. Bianca had told him not to do anything too stupid…

But stupid, so he'd learned, was a subjective term.

* * *

Up next: "You moron! What 'appened to be being polite and being _efficient_?"


	21. Be Polite, Be Efficient

Sorry about the long wait on this chapter, guys, but this one was a paiiin to write. Fortunately I never have to look at it again, aha!

* * *

_**Chapter Twenty: Be Polite, Be Efficient…**_

"Buona sera, bella addormentata."

Sudden light dispelled the darkness of Spy's mind and he groaned, eyes still screwed shut. He kept his head bowed, breathing paced. His arms were tied behind him, his legs bound to the chair he was strapped to. Every limb was numb, every muscle aching. But he didn't flinch when cold steel slid under his chin, smoothly forcing his face upwards. Finally Spy opened his eyes, glaring at Giancarlo.

The Italian smirked, lit cigarette dangling loosely from his lips. "Per l'amore di Dio, sei un brutto figlio di puttana, eh?"

"Vaffanculo, e va anche tua madre," Spy hissed through clenched teeth, glaring up at Giancarlo.

Giancarlo tsked and shook his head before his calloused palm shot out, slapping the bound Frenchman across the face. Spy's head snapped to the side, and a low growl escaped him. The growl only heightened when Giancarlo tut-tutted, swinging a chair around and straddling it. He reached over and grabbed Spy's chin in his hand, bringing it roughly back to him. "See, Signor Vidal, you're lucky I need you to talk, otherwise I'd cut your tongue right out of your mouth."

What little color Spy had left drained from his countenance, and Giancarlo smirked. "Sí. That's your name, isn't it? Philippe Vidal. Nice name." He leaned down and picked up a red folder, tapping it against his palm. The faint flicker of Spy's eyes to the folder and back again didn't escape him. He grinned, smoke billowing out of his nose. "That's not the only thing I know about you, amico." Taking the knife into his hand once more, Giancarlo leaned over and made the smallest slice in Spy's left sleeve. Spy attempted to jerk away, but failed. Giancarlo worked the knife deeper, pressing the point right into his tattoo.

"Hmm. No service record for you, Signor Vidal. But you do have a very interesting criminal record." Giancarlo sat back, sliding the knife into his boot. He licked his thumb and began to flip through the red file. He leaned back into the seat, chillingly nonchalant. "You're wanted in the Philippines for larceny, the United Kingdom for drug trafficking, Sweden for identity fraud, Poland for aggravated assault, Austria, Hungary, and Bosnia for assassination, the U.S.S.R. for _attempted_ assassination…Canada for murder, Mexico for arson, and," Giancarlo's bushy eyebrows flew into his hairline, "the state of Massachusetts for jaywalking."

A corner of Spy's mouth twitched upwards. The faint smile faded, however, when Giancarlo sneered, reading through the file once more. "You have yourself an impressive number of contacts and skills, Signor Vidal. So, my burning question is…" he leaned forward once more, hands clasped together, "what are you doing here?"

Spy's eyebrow quirked.

Giancarlo leaned forward, hand sliding towards the hilt of his knife. "You think you can just waltz into my factory and take what belongs to me? Life doesn't work like that, my friend. So, who are you working for? Team Fortress Industries? Black Mesa? Not that idiot _Johnson_?"

Out the knife came again, sliding along Spy's jawline. Spy kept still, staring straight into Giancarlo's eyes. Giancarlo leaned in. "Spies do not just come poking around because they're curious. I'm going to get the truth from you, Signor Vidal, one way or another."

He stood, pulling a pair of leather gloves out of his pocket and snapping them on. He stooped down, and when he straightened again there was a solid wooden baseball bat in his hands. Giancarlo tapped the bat to one of Spy's knees. "I have a dispenser just around the corner. You know what that means?"

Judging by the way Spy's eyes flashed in a mixture of panic and horror, and the sudden intake of breath that he couldn't control, he did. Giancarlo stomped his cigarette underfoot and tightened his grip on the bat. "It means we can be here all night."

The Spy stayed stubbornly, infuriatingly silent.

**…**

The palms of his hands were slick and sweaty as Blake adjusted the tool belt around his waist. The wrench in particular seemed to be giving him a hard time, as he picked it up and slid it back down into numerous spots.

"Calm down, son!" Delmond cocked an eyebrow at him, sipping his coffee as he did so.

Blake froze on the spot. "Sorry, sir." Instead he began to fiddle with the hardhat on his head. "Erm…I'm just going to go practice building sentries, okay?"

Delmond's eyebrow remained high in puzzlement. "Not interested in…?" He gestured towards the computer screen.

The sound of a snapping bone, followed by a hoarse cry of pain, emitting from the screen just made Blake shake his head faster. "No. Violence isn't really my thing, y'know? Live long and prosper and all that?" He held up a gloved hand, splitting his fingers into a geeky salute. He tried to smile, but only wound up looking sick.

Delmond sighed and shook his head, muttering under his breath about "television ruining the minds of kids these days".

Blake waited until his back was completely turned before sliding the wrench out of his belt. His fingers coiled around the tool, breath bated, and crept up behind Delmond.

The Texan didn't have time to suspect a thing before the wrench had smacked the back of his head, knocking him out instantly and sending the hefty man pitching forward. Blake stepped back, gasping and clutching a hand to his heart.

He was surprised that had even _worked_.

With Delmond out of the way, Blake sprang forward and typed a quick code into the computer. Instantly the buzzing screens—including the one with Giancarlo and the Spy—went dark.

With the deed done Blake stepped back, quivering with nerves. He fiddled with the hat on his head once more before darting out, throwing an apologetic "Sorry!" to the unconscious Delmond as he did so.

**…**

"Do the gates normally open automatically?"

Christian glanced into the rear-view mirror at Jack, eyebrows arched. The mustachioed man hesitated, and then shook his head. "No. You have to swipe your ID card…"

For an instant the van stalled as Christian considered the open gates. Then he inched the van forward slowly, grip on the wheel pale-knuckled.

It passed through the gates unharmed, and the group let out a collective breath of relief. Lizzie leaned back on the bed, rubbing her stomach absentmindedly, and it took all of Christian's self-control not to sneak glances at her in the rearview mirror.

Sniper noted his twitchy behavior, but misinterpreted it by a long stroke. "Don't worry. We're gonna be fine."

Christian looked to him and nodded, mouth twitching upwards a bit. "Of course we are. I never said otherwise." He pulled the van through into the parking lot and shut it off with a smooth flick of his wrist. "C'mon."

Jack offered his hand to Lizzie, but she swatted it away and clambered down out of the Mundymobile herself, balancing herself with confidence. Sniper, on the other hand, moved with a slow deliberateness that suggested a man twice his age and half his vigor. The bushman kept his face stoic, but Christian's sharp eyes saw every subtle twitch and quiver, the way his jaw tensed with each passing motion.

For an instant, Christian wondered if it was _Phil's_ bloodied and battered body they'd be dragging home after all.

He didn't have time to dwell on the possibilities, however, because Sniper and Jack had bounded up to the employee entryway and Sniper was all but bouncing from impatience as Jack jammed his identification number into the number pad. After an instant the light above the entrance blipped green, and a metallic feminine voice cheerfully welcomed Jack Williams in.

The instant they were in the cool darkness of the factory, Sniper drew Spy's revolver from his pocket, cocking it and holding it with a cool nonchalance. Lizzie watched her brother's eyes go cold and emotionless in a mixture of admiration and terror.

"They'd take Phil someplace quiet, someplace secure." Sniper looked Jack's way. "Well?"

"Erm…I'm not sure…"

"WELL?!

He'd forgotten about going unnoticed, and the thunderous echo that followed Sniper's shout reverberated back to Jack tenfold. Sniper didn't turn the gun on him, but Jack was certain he dearly wanted to. He cleared his throat and scowled. "Lower levels. Testing facilities, probably—"

"MISTER LAWRENCE MUNDY, SIR!"

The shout caught them all off-guard, and Blake was forced to duck as a bullet ricocheted off the wall beside him. He yelped, throwing his arms over his head and cowering back as Sniper advanced on him.

Lizzie was behind him immediately. "Lawrence! You nearly killed him!"

"Trust me, Liz, if I wanted to kill him that bullet wouldn't've hit the wall. That was a warning, boy. I'm not playing games." Sniper bent down and hauled Blake up by the collar, glowering down at the shivering youth. "What are you doing here, Blake?"

At the mention of his name Blake brightened considerably, and seemed to forget that Sniper had just shot at him as the words left him in a rush:

"Wellyouseeyourfriendisinreallybiglikesuperhugetro ubleandI—"

"English, lad!" Sniper interjected, a bit concerned at the bluish hue Blake was turning.

The blond froze, took a breath, and began anew: "It's your friend, Mister Lawrence, your friend Mister Vidal—urk—" Blake squirmed as Sniper's grip on him tightened like a vice "—Giancarlo has him! Two floors down, Testing Room 314!"

His green eyes were wide and terrified, and that was why Sniper decided to trust him. One factor still weighed heavily on his mind, however. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because—"

And here Blake froze. Because he couldn't rightly explain to the tall, rugged, enormously impressive bushman that in all the time he'd been here, Sniper was the only one who had given him the time of day without a sneer thrown in. How could he possibly explain that Sniper shoving a fistful of dollars into his hand when he was drunk off his arse was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for him? "Because…because it's the right thing to do! 'sides, I'm too handsome for prison!"

The answer wasn't complete, but it was satisfactory enough for Sniper, who released Blake from his iron grip. There was a glint in the Aussie's eye as he stepped backwards. "Liz, Jack, stay here. Chris, gimme the sniper rifle."

Christian obliged by tossing it to him. Sniper caught it easily and turned to go, but was interrupted by a question from Blake. "What happened to you?"

The boy's eyes were roving over Sniper's battered frame in fascinated horror. When he saw Blake's expression, his mouth pulled upwards into a cool smirk. "Wrestled a crocodile."

Blake's eyes might have been made of emeralds for all that they shined. He was too star-struck to move, so it was Lizzie who went next: "You two be careful, all right? Be polite and be efficient, isn't that your motto?"

There was more to it, but Sniper didn't bother to mention the rest of his mantra. He just nodded. Lizzie nodded back, face pale. "Then stick to it."

**…**

The dispenser gurgled to life, Spy's gasp of mingled relief and fury echoing soon after. He scowled as Giancarlo's machine brought him back from the brink of death, closing over his wounds and mending broken bones.

Giancarlo watched, head tilted, as Spy's blackened eye slowly receded. "Round Two. You sure you can keep this up?"

"Continuez." Spy snapped, rolling his head around his shoulders and watching every movement Giancarlo made with the rapt attention of a predator.

Giancarlo shook his head in what might have been admiration before picking up his bloodied knife from the floor. "Maybe you'll be a little more willing to talk once you've gone without your senses, eh? I could leave you in here, deaf and dumb and blind. I've seen it happen before, you know. Terrifying—they kept trying to scream and scream…" He crouched down in front of Spy, tracing the point of his knife along his temple. Seething, Spy could do nothing but watch. "We'll start with the ears, I think—"

Spy was not a man who believed in miracles. Spy was not the man who had ever witnessed a miracle. And so, it was with great shock and even greater glee that he saw a bullet whizzing through the air and right through Giancarlo's fist, blasting clean through. And a split second later—before Giancarlo had time to even process that he was down a hand—Lawrence Mundy came barreling through the door with all the speed and fury of a pissed-off dingo, tackling Giancarlo to the ground and straddling him with one good fist wailing on him.

It was a regular Christmas miracle.

Christian was in the room in an instant, Spy's switchblade at the ready. His eyes locked on the bound Spy and he darted over, sawing through the thick ropes as quickly and as carefully as he could.

"You're late," Spy managed.

Christian snorted. "We stopped for dinner."

Meanwhile, Giancarlo had seized Sniper by the throat and threw him off, scrambling up as Sniper staggered to his feet. The Italian's fist connected with his stomach, and lashes of white-hot pain ripped Sniper in two. He bellowed, but was shortly silenced by a punch to the jaw. Disorientated, blood oozing from his abdomen, Sniper stumbled backwards, grabbing for the kukri at his waist. His hand locked around the hilt just as Giancarlo's leg snapped up and kicked him in the chest, sending him flying across the room. He hit the opposite wall with a strangled gasp, and sank down.

"LAWRENCE!"

It was a mutual cry from both Christian and Spy, and the instant the ropes bounding Spy snapped he was up and grabbing his knife from Christian. He lunged forward, dodged the bullet Giancarlo fired his way, and rolled to his feet, flicking the knife through his fingers with a stunning expertise.

For an instant there was silence, broken only by the labored pants of the down Sniper.

"Two against one," Christian muttered, reaching smoothly for the pistol tucked into his waistline.

Giancarlo snorted, eyes flickering between Spy and Christian. He cocked the gun once more and aimed it directly at Spy. "You brought a knife to a gunfight," he sneered.

Momentarily Spy's eyes flickered to something behind Giancarlo. He smirked. "Knife? No, mon ami, this isn't a knife…"

An arm was flung around Giancarlo's neck, the hand dangling as though it were broken. Nevertheless there was enough power and fury in that arm to choke Giancarlo as Sniper leaned in, his whispered words foul as rancid meat. "_This is a knife_."

The cold, biting steel of the kukri was slammed with full force and intent through Giancarlo's back, sliding out his front torso as cleanly as a hot knife through butter. A strangled cry of shock and fury left Giancarlo as he grasped at his bloodied front, but it was quickly by two bullets to the head. His head blasted into a pink mist, and his writhing, wriggling body drop to its knees. It pitched forward to the floor, finally still.

Panting, Christian lowered his smoking gun. "My dog died with more dignity than you, you son of a bitch."

The gun clattered to the floor just as Spy darted over Sniper, who had collapsed to the ground. The Aussie's chest barely rose and fell, and his eyes were open but vacant. Spy scrambled to find a pulse, cursing under his breath when there was nothing. "C'mon, Lawrence, you didn't come all this way just to die on me. Lawrence!"

When Sniper didn't respond, Spy hauled him up and all but threw him down by the dispenser, slamming his fist down on the pump that released the healing spray. It settled down over Sniper like a cloud.

For an instant Spy held his breath, heart hammering wildly, and he found himself praying to someone—anyone—that Sniper wasn't too far gone.

And then the Aussie took a huge breath, eyes flying open. Color seeped back into his profile, and he pressed a hand to the wound that was rapidly closing over. Stunned, he looked to Spy, who had let out his breath in a shaky laugh. "You moron! You could 'ave shot 'im in the 'ead to start with! Or at the very least, 'is balls! What 'appened to being _efficient_?"

"Thought you or Chris deserved the killin' blow," Sniper replied, voice hoarse. He swallowed a node in his throat as he glanced over Spy's ragged appearance. "You look loike ya been ta hell and back."

"Speak for yourself," Spy grunted, shifting slightly in his crouched position.

"Hmm. Still prettier than you." Carefully, as though still in pain, Sniper reached into his pocket and withdrew Spy's balaclava. "Put that on before ya make me sick."

Spy did so gladly, and as the cloth smoothed over his face his heartbeat began to lessen slightly. A huge invisible weight came off his shoulders, and he found himself sitting criss-cross in front of Sniper as his various injuries were nursed over by the dispenser. He tried for 'thank you', but for some reason it got stuck in his throat, and instead out came a gruff, "Took you long enough to get 'ere."

"Shut it, spook. I leave you alone for five minutes—five minutes!—and you went and got yourself spook-napped. Gonna have ta buy a bleedin' tracker for ya or something…" Sniper's eyes remained closed in exhaustion, but there was strength back in his voice, and after another moment he managed to open his eyes once more. "You all roight?"

"Oui. Are you?"

"Yeah."

Spy helped Sniper to his feet, and once he was there he looked better than he had in a week. He rolled his shoulders back, flexed his hands, and tipped his hat towards Spy in thanks before promptly handing him all of his weapons.

Spy cocked an eyebrow as his revolver and sapper were shoved into his hands. "Were you expecting a small army?"

"Yer the one who likes being over-prepared fer everything!—"

An argument was spared by Christian, who loudly cleared his throat. "If you two fellas are done with your awkward declarations of friendship, some of us would like to leave." He grinned as the two sheepishly shifted, agreeing quietly.

When they left they didn't look back, and so they missed Giancarlo's body fading silently into Respawn.

**…**

"This place gives me the heebie-jeepies."

"The what?"

"The creeps!"

Sniper grinned at Christian and Spy's exchange as the trio slowly made their way through the testing floors of the facility. Christian scowled as he opened one door, glancing inside. "I mean, look at this! What government is funding all this?!"

Spy and Sniper both glanced around his shoulder. The door he had just wrenched open led into a huge warehouse. And inside robots stood row-by-row, powered down. Sniper snorted and stepped in, walking up to one robot and poking it in the shoulder. "Damn machines, trying to take good, honest mercenary jobs away from hard-working folk loike us."

"Be realistic, Lawrence, it'll be years before they're up to our standard." Spy followed suit, tracing a line down another robot with his finger. He 'hmm'ed at the amount of dust left on his finger. "At any rate, they're not seeing any action."

"Damn bucket of bolts…" Sniper rapped one on the head, and the instant he did an alarming began blaring.

INTRUDER ALERT! INTRUDER ALERT!

In a wave, the heads of the robots began snapping upwards, headlight eyes a bright red.

INTRUDER ALERT! PROTECT THE FACILITY!

All three men took a step backwards, and that's when they saw the forearms of the robots receding into the upper arms. There was a terrible clicking of a hundred or so robots as they simultaneously armed themselves. Their forearms slid back out, only this time, guns were attached to the ends.

Out of the frying pan, and into the fire.

Sniper pushed Christian and Spy out the door, and then slammed it shut just as the first bullet fired. The hallway was bathed in red, flashing lights and screeching alarms transforming the simple corridor into something much more horrific.

Spy shook Sniper's shoulder roughly, for the Aussie was still staring at the bullet-riddled door in horror. "THE DOOR! LAWRENCE, THE DOOR OUT!"

For the door at the end of the hallway was slowly closing of its own accord, and Spy was confident that if it shut all the way there'd be no getting out.

They darted to the closing door as gunshots rang out behind them, and that's when Sniper took Christian by the scruff of the neck and all but threw him through the door. The bartender stumbled and fell, turning around in horror to see that there was no room for Sniper and Spy to get through as well, and the words "TAKE CARE OF LIZZIE!" rang out just as the door slammed shut.

**…**

"So…come here often?"

Blake smiled blithely at Lizzie, who just shook her head and moved to sit next to her husband on the staircase. Blake huffed and went back to playing Cat's Cradle with the string he'd found in his pocket, suddenly disinterested in making conversation.

Lizzie rubbed her upper arm and stole a glance at Jack. "Hey."

Jack glanced back at her. "Hey."

"Are we…okay?"

"Is there something making you think we're not okay?"

"Well…"

It was at this moment, of all moments, that her treacherous brain chose to recall the kiss she had shared with Christian, and the way his hands had roamed over her body, gentle and reassuring. A warm flush crept up the back of her neck, and when she spoke again her voice was shaky, "It just seems like…we're growing apart."

Jack's eyebrows arched in surprise. "Do you really wanna do this now? Here?"

"If not here than where?" Lizzie hissed. At her tone Blake began to scoot up the staircase, eyes still locked on the thread in his hands. "Jack, lately it seems like the only person you care about is yourself! You haven't even looked my way since…since I started blowing up like this!" She gestured to her swollen stomach, tears filling her eyes. "I don't know what I did wrong! And the fact that we don't even talk anymore is driving me crazy! We've fallen out of love, Jack, and that's not supposed to happen!"

Jack shifted his stance a bit. "So what do you suggest we do, Liz?"

"I don't know, Jack! If it were anyone else I'd say 'let's fix this', but with you—you're a brick wall! An emotionless stone! I don't know what's even going on in your head anymore!" She buried her face in her hands.

Jack clasped his hands together and stared at her.

Above them Blake watched the pair with rapt attention, string strung around his fingers. He was about to offer his input into the whole situation, when the alarms began blaring. His head snapped upwards to stare at the flashing red lights in alarm. "Well, that's not good."

Lizzie stood quickly. "How not good?"

"Potentially very dangerously, decidedly _not_ good." Blake returned, hastily stuffing the string in his pockets.

INTRUDER ALERT! INTRUDER ALERT!

"Oh, and it just got a whole lot worse," he murmured.

At the moment, Christian came barreling out of a corridor, skidding to a stop at the base of the staircase. He opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a loud gasp. He doubled over, panting and grasping the stitch in his side.

It only took Lizzie a moment to realize what was wrong. "Where are Lawrence and Phil?"

"Trapped," Christian rasped, "back that a-way." He pointed down the corridor, still trying for breath.

Blake was beside him in an instant. "Are the robots awake?" he demanded, grabbing Christian's arm and tugging him upwards once more.

"A-awake? I guess you could call it that." Christian wrenched himself out of Blake's grasp before stepping forward, grabbing the youth by the collar. "What do you have down there, boy? What did you trap my friends with?"

"R-robots!" Blake squeaked. "They're our last-ditch security measure! When they're activated, the lower floors shut down, because they were designed to protect it!"

"Robot security?! What the hell kinda place you got here, boy?!"

"Please don't yell at me, sir!" Blake squeaked, squirming in his tight grip. "Like I said, they're a last measure! They can't be activated unless you have the code!"

"_And who has the code_?"

"T—the boss, and Bianca, and our top Engineer, and Giancarlo! But only Giancarlo would be—"

"Giancarlo is dead." Christian retorted flatly.

Suddenly Blake ceased in his blabbing, and for an instant the only sound to be heard was the wailing of the alarms, which seemed to fade eerily into the background the longer Christian and Blake stared at each other. "Oh, no, sir," Blake whispered, "you didn't kill him. You just made him angry."

"Can you fix this?" Christian demanded, shaking him a little to get his attention. "Can you stop this?"

"I—I—I—"

His wide green eyes flickered to Lizzie, taking in her frightened expression. His eyes went lower to her pregnant stomach and the way she held her hands to it protectively. Her brother—that baby's uncle—was down there, trapped, and God only knew if he would get out alive. With a sinking feeling, Blake realized there was only one person in the entire factory with enough know-how to stop those rampaging machines.

And his name was Blake Porter.

"I…I can try." Blake looked back to Christian, expression grim. He stepped out of Christian's grasp. "But I need you to stay here. If those robots get out, there needs to be someone watching the door."

"What for?" Christian's eyebrow arched, even as he reached for his gun.

Blake took a deep breath before beginning. "Those robots are a last-resort for a reason. They're faulty, and we're still fiddling with the AI. You see, once these robots are operating they can't tell friend from foe. They attack anyone—or anything—that gets in their way. We've had a…few…accidents happen while working on them. They keep going, and they won't stop. And if they get through those doors—" Blake pointed to the entrance "—I don't want to think about what might happen."

"Sounds like you got a multi-million dollar liability on your hands, kid." Christian's eyes narrowed, but nonetheless he nodded. "I'll stay here. Now get!" He released Blake and the youth stumbled backwards, practically vanishing on the spot once he was free.

Christian began to recheck all of his weapons, and as he did so Jack grabbed Lizzie's hand. "C'mon. We're getting out of here."

"What? No!"

"Liz, you heard the kid! We gotta get out of here!"

Lizzie jerked her hand back out of Jack's grasp with a scowl. "Not without Lawrence."

"Liz," Jack scowled, stepping forward to take her shoulders, "think of the baby!"

If he had bothered looking into her eyes—really, truly looking into them—he would have seen that she had already thought of the baby. She had already attempted to balance familial bonds with motherly love, had weighed the risks and the consequences. This unborn child was her life, her everything—but so was her brother. And he was trapped downstairs where she could not save him. So she would do the next best thing. She would wait for him, and Philippe, and Christian. She would wait for the ones that she loved, no matter how long it would take. She owed what little she had to the living.

In all their years, Lawrence had never allowed harm to come to her. It was the very least she could do to pay him back.

So she tactfully stepped out of Jack's grasp, expression calm and almost regal. "Not without Lawrence. You can run if you want, but I'm staying until I know my brother is safe." Her bright blue eyes narrowed, and Jack took a step backwards, startled and nearly intimidated. The Mundy blood in her—the fierce, stubborn, brazen Mundy blood—was beginning to take over, and Lizzie seemed to stand somewhat taller.

"Liz," Christian began in a low tone, "I think you should go—"

His tone was cut off by the sound of spraying bullets in the distance, shortly followed by a cry of pain. Instantly the gaze of both Lizzie and Christian swiveled to the dark corridor from where he had come from. There was a loud bang, and another, and another, and the grip Christian had on his gun began to shake.

When the bangs ceased, Lizzie took a deep, steadying breath and rounded on her husband once more.

Only to find that he wasn't there.

And, just as quickly as it had come, that fierceness that had overtaken her was gone. She deflated, suddenly small and fragile and scared. "He's gone," she whispered, eyes widening, "he's gone."

She didn't have time to mourn; because Christian's steady hand was on her shoulder. "Liz," his eyes were blazing, "are you sure about this?"

"Positive," she said, even as her voice cracked. "Wh—what's this?" She blanched as Christian shoved a very large, very pointy sword at her. She took it gingerly by the hilt.

"It belongs to your brother. He got it on some fancy trip to some place in the East."

"Wh—what do I do with it?!"

"See the pointy sharp end?" Christian pointed to the blade of the scimitar. "Put that in anything that tries to kill me."

A vein in Lizzie's throat jumped and what color she had drained, but nonetheless she nodded, retreating against the wall. Christian rolled his shoulders back, ready for whatever came.

**…**

"Okay, okay, okay, this is not good."

"Yes, thank you, that is marvelous input into this whole situation, Lawrence!"

The pair stood, staring at the immovable door in frustration and horror. Sniper tugged at the handle desperately while Spy drew his revolver, turning slowly on the spot.

For an awful screeching noise had begun to sound behind them. As Spy watched, the door standing between themselves and the murderous robots was blasted to bits, thudding against the opposite wall was a charred and dented piece of scrap metal.

The first of the robots stumbled out of the room—and was promptly sent flying by a bullet to the head. Spy strode forward, the very definition of calm, firing another bullet into the second robot. The third managed to fire off a bullet that whizzed harmlessly past Spy's head. "Good news," he called to Sniper, "their aim is worthless!"

"They don't need accuracy, spook!" Sniper thundered. He gave up on the door and followed Spy, rifle in hand. "They just need numbers…" His voice trailed off, and Spy stopped in his tracks.

A hundred or so metallic guns were pointed towards them. A few clicks and shifting gears broke the sudden silence, and then the order was given by an unseen source:

"Fire."

Spy had Sniper by the scruff of the neck and pulled him to the floor instantly, the bullets whizzing overhead and colliding with nothing by wall. Flattened to the tile floor, arms thrown over his head, Sniper managed a grin. "Told ya. Stupid bucket of bolts—AARGH!"

A bullet pinged off of the floor near his elbow and Sniper froze. Spy grabbed his gun and fired at the offending robot, buckling the machine. "Delayed reaction," he muttered.

"What do we do?" Sniper roared over the din of whirring guns.

"Back to the dispenser!"

It was a start, at least.

There was no need for verbal communication of a plan. Sniper and Spy may not always have been in tandem, but they were a team nonetheless. Instantly Sniper scrambled up off of the floor and tackled the nearest robot to the floor. Spy rose up after him with weapons blazing, firing rapid shots into the metal crowd. He ducked once more and slid his knife through his fingers, stabbing a robot in the thigh. The knife went deep into the body of steel and wires, and Spy grunted as he jerked it back out again.

Sniper, meanwhile, was putting his kukri to good use. Darting this way and that, he stabbed and hacked and slaughtered, bits of sparking material falling around him as he danced a macabre ballet into the thick of it. Spy followed, appearing and reappearing at will, conserving his firepower as best he could. His quick blade slid into the wire-filled slit between head and neck, and the robot sparked and collapsed. Spy disappeared again, only to reappear at Sniper's back with sapper drawn.

Two robots had finally been roused to attention and fired towards Sniper. He ducked, and as he did so Spy rolled over his back, tossed the sapper down into the crowd, and grinned as several more robots exploded. "Nothing more than an Engineer's toys—ARGH!"

Blood spurted from his shoulder and Spy's good arm flew to it in horror. He dropped to his knees just in time to avoid a volley of fire. Sniper vaulted over him, beheading two robots in one fell stroke. "You okay?" He called even as he reversed the stroke, stabbing a robot behind him.

"_Bordel_…I'm fine! Keep going!" Spy staggered to his feet, grimacing as blood ran down his limp arm. "The suit is ruined anyway!"

"M'not worried about the damn suit, ya stupid blighter!" Sniper roared, glaring at the wounded Spy. "C'mon!" He darted backwards, grabbed the Spy by the collar, and hauled him into a workshop. He slammed the door behind them, just as a spray of bullets hit it.

Sniper frowned at the dented door before stepping back, eying Spy. The Frenchman had slumped down beside the door, clutching his arm. "The bullet is lodged in there," he hissed, swallowing back a cry of pain as he tried to shift. He slammed his head against the wall, mouth contorted. "Quel idiot!"

"I am not an idiot," Sniper snapped. The Aussie backed away from the door, listening to the movements of the metallic menace outside it. "How many bullets do you got?"

Fire licked his shoulder with each movement, but nevertheless Spy managed to pop open the chamber to his revolver. The instant he did so his expression darkened—more so than it already had. "I'm out."

Sniper swore softly, casting glances around. While Spy slid off his jacket and tried to mop up the running blood with the fine material, his Aussie companion was busy rummaging around the tarp-covered tables and dusty wooden boxes. "Lawrence! Leave that alone! We 'ave bigger problems!" White spots flickered across his eyes and Spy cursed, throwing a glare at the door. "What I wouldn't give for Demoman right now!"

"Hey spook."

"_What_?"

"Where's the best place to get chased into by a horde of crazy robots?"

"I'm not in the mood for riddles, Lawrence."

"C'mon, guess!"

"Aargh…I don't know. Nowhere, I suppose."

Sniper scoffed. He grabbed fistfuls of tarp and tugged it off a table with a dramatic flourish. "How about the experimental weaponry division?" With a canine grin he looked back to Spy, arms spread wide. "Ta-da."

Suddenly curious, Spy braced himself against the wall and slid upwards. He staggered over to join Sniper, eyebrows arched. "What the…"

Scattered across the dust-covered table were weapons of all shapes and sizes, some laying ready for a wielder, some half-finished, some discarded entirely. Sniper moved on to the stack of boxes beside the table while Spy studied the weapons. There was what looked to be a half-finished flamethrower, several watches like the one he had pilfered before, and an odd, oval-shaped device. He hefted it up into his good arm, admiring its pristine white shell and the spindly black arms whose functions he couldn't discern. There was a small inscribed printed on the underside of the device, and Spy squinted to read it. "Portal device mark tw—"

A crow of triumph from Sniper interrupted him. The Aussie had resurfaced from deep within a box, a long, thin rod in hand. "This is perfect! Put that toy down, spook, we're back in business!"

"A _crowbar_?"

"Don't scoff." Sniper wagged his finger before handing the crowbar off to Spy. "It's hard-hitting, it's fast, and all you need is a good grip in one hand."

Gingerly Spy put the odd device down and took the crowbar in hand. He arched his eyebrows at the plebeian weapon, refusing to be impressed. As he did so, a resounding boom sounded against the door. A huge dent appeared in the metal, and the door bent inwards in its frame.

Sniper scooped up a handle of little gray capsules. He shook them a bit, apparently unconcerned about the encroaching danger. "What do you reckon these do?"

"Lawrence—"

Before Spy could even begin to chide Sniper, however, there was a chilling final thud, and the door clattered to the ground. The first of many robots stepped through the threshold, gun whirring.

Sniper wasted no time—the pellets were flung from his hand, and then the world exploded into smoke.

**…**

Blake's breathing was labored as he climbed the last of the stairs, wrench in hand. Even as he adjusted the wobbling hardhat on his head he darted forward, towards the only room on this floor.

He slammed his palm against the identification pad, but the light above the door stayed a dim red. "Access denied," a cheerful feminine voice informed him, "this room is under lockdown."

Blake's eyes widened and his grip on the wrench tightened. "Let me in!"

"I am afraid I cannot do that, sir."

His bright green eyes flashed and the wrench swung through the air, colliding with the identification pad. It shattered into a million glass bits, revealing the wiring underneath. Undeterred, Blake stuck his hand into the mess of sparking bits, fiddling around with a bunch of wires.

"Sir—sir…sir…" The feminine voice deepened and then dropped away. The door slid open. Blake charged through the threshold, wielding his tool like a weapon in preparedness for a fight.

And then stopped short.

Giancarlo was hunched over the motherboard, one hand gripping the board tightly. His head was bowed, shoulders heaving as though he were about to be sick. He was a dark silhouette against the bright glow of the computer screens, a blot of ill intentions at the helm of his war machine.

Blake took a cautious step forward. "Giancarlo?"

Slowly, Giancarlo's head came up. He continued to face the screen. "Where's Delmond?"

"He's…preoccupied elsewhere."

"Get him immediately!"

"_He's not available_."

"What did you do?"

"I might be asking you the same question."

There was a steel edge in Blake's voice, one that made Giancarlo glance over his shoulder, eye flickering over the stiff Blake. His grip on the desk tightened. "Tell me, Porter. What was the major problem we were having with the Respawn system?"

Something about his tone made the blond nervous, and he shifted. "T-the…the molecules…some of them didn't translate correctly. All those mice…" He lowered his eyes to the ground in remembered horror. "That's why we didn't move onto human subjects. Except…" his voice trailed off in terrified realization, "except…the Boss insisted that you and Bia be hooked up to the system…" Eyes widening, breath quickened, his gaze shot upwards once more.

Unhurriedly, with all the deliberateness of a surgeon in the middle of a procedure, Giancarlo turned around.

Blake's wrench clattered to the floor.

Giancarlo tilted his head to the side. "Scared, boy?"

The right side of his face was fine. But the left…

Where smooth flesh should have been there was nothing but muscle and sinew. An empty eye socket stared at Blake. Veiny lines of exposed muscle spider webbed across his nose. Yellowed teeth clenched in agony, and as his breath hitched in delayed pain Blake could see bits and pieces of exposed throat.

For a long moment there was silence. Carefully Blake leaned down and scooped up his wrench, holding it close to his chest as a child might a teddy bear. Giancarlo remained silent, waiting for his reaction, and finally Blake cleared his throat. "You should get that checked out."

A split second later the wrench was rebounding off of Giancarlo's forehead. He howled in pain and stumbled backwards, and Blake seized the chance. He rushed forward and punched Giancarlo straight in the jaw.

The already stunned, injured Italian dropped to the floor, out cold.

There was a beat as Blake stared at the unconscious man at his feet. And then he bounced into the air. "YES! I DID IT! I DID IT, I—OW! Owowowowo…" His clenched hand felt like it was on fire, and he clutched it to his chest, blowing on it in an attempt to ease the pain. "Owowowowow…ow…ow…aha…focus, you moron, focus!"

What was he doing again?

Robots. Mister Lawrence. Right.

Continuing to nurse his throbbing hand, he sat down at the motherboard and took a deep breath. "Computer, shut down the alerts. Provide auxiliary power to the lower floors."

The machine obliged him. Two smaller screens appearing, revealing the situation on the lower floors. Blake grimaced as he watched the ugly battle before turning back to the main screen. "Good. Um…shut down the robots."

A password box appeared.

"Dammit. It was worth a shot, I guess. Uh…how are they doing down there, anyways?"

"Forty-one robots are no longer functional, sir."

"Out of?"

"One hundred."

Blake arched his eyebrows and whistled. "Are there any emergency exits out of the lower floors?"

"I'm afraid not, sir."

Leaning backwards in the office chair, Blake considered his options. No password, no emergency exits, no chance of survival unless he got Lawrence and his French friend out of there. First things first, then—get them out of lower floors and to safety.

He began to chew the bottom of his lip, and so when the idea struck him he nearly broke the skin. He scrambled up out of the chair. "Computer, open all doors on the lower floors immediately."

"Sir—"

"DO IT!"

**…**

A grinding, whirring sound set Christian's teeth on edge. He clapped one hand to his head, trying to stuff it out. "AARGH! What was that?"

Lizzie swallowed hard. "Something's moving down there. Do—do you think Blake got the doors working?"

"Sounds like it." Christian shooed Lizzie away again, finger sliding towards the trigger on his pistol.

Silence ensued once more. And then—BOOM! Christian grimaced and Lizzie jumped, hands trembling on the shiv in her hands. A series of explosive sounds followed, and with each successive boom whatever was coming drew closer and closer.

Christian breathed deeply, exhaling in even bursts as three robots marched down the corridor, weapons at the ready. "STAND DOWN!"

The robots did not comply. They didn't even slow their pace. They just continued towards Christian. The bartender scowled, no longer afraid but angry. He had caught a glimpse of Lizzie's frightened mien, and a fatherly instinct to protect had coursed through his system like electric shocks.

He pulled the trigger, catching one robot in the neck. Its featureless head jerked backwards, and that afforded Christian another clear shot into its wiring. It fell to the ground, twitching and sparking, but its companions paid it no heed. At the sound of gunfire they had snapped to full alertness.

Christian had a split second to spring out of the way as they fired. Lizzie shrieked as bullets ripped through the air. Christian scowled and rolled over onto his back, returning fire. He managed to take down the second robot, and was in the middle of scooting backwards when the final robot finally registered where the fire was coming from, and appropriately aimed its gun in that direction.

"CHRISTIAN!"

He rolled once more, missing a hailstorm of bullets by an instant, and just as he righted himself once more a bullet went whizzing overhead—straight into the head of the final robot and out once more. It was a clear, clean shot, and Lizzie couldn't help but to marvel at the marksman-like accuracy of the shot as the bucket of bolts collapsed in a heap.

Both Christian and Lizzie looked to his savior, jaws dropping in unison.

It wasn't Lawrence. It wasn't Philippe. It wasn't Blake or Jack.

"DAD?!"

* * *

On the behalf of good literature everywhere I must apologize for this chapter

Up next: "Oh God I got shot! I got shot I got shot-" "Focus, kid! I need you here!"


	22. Have A Plan to Kill Everyone You Meet

Hello once again, guys! I didn't get a chance to thank everyone who reviewed last chapter, so I'll do it now-Thanks a bunch! :o) And thanks to Bel as well, for always being a prompt beta.

I'm pleased with this chapter, but once again you'll have to be the judge of that. :3

* * *

_**Chapter Twenty-One: …And Have A Plan to Kill Everyone You Meet**_

"Dad…Dad what are you doing here?!"

"Saving your arse, and kicking your brother's!" Lawrence Sr. bellowed. Rifle in hand, he stomped forward, with a look in his eyes that suggested he was ready to kill. "That boy is as good as dead when I find him!"

Lizzie finally snapped out of her shock and grabbed her father by the hand. "Dad, please, wait! There's danger down there—!"

"Bah. Those rusted bucket of bolts? I faced more trouble with barbed wire back in the war!" He wrenched himself out of his daughter's grasp, eyes flashing. "Where's Jack?"

"I don't…he's gone…"

Lawrence Sr.'s nostrils flared in fury before he rounded on Christian, who had found something interesting to stare at on the floor. "Chris, get Liz out of here."

"Dad, not without Lawrence! He's in real trouble!"

"Oh, I bet he is…" Upon seeing Lizzie's terrified expression, however, his temper ebbed. Mulling over the situation, he once again glanced towards Christian, and then back to the pale Lizzie. One hand went into his overalls, withdrawing the keys to his truck. He handed them to Lizzie with a grim expression. "Wait outside. I'll find your brother and his friend, and then kick both their arses from here to Denmark."

He graciously accepted the arms Lizzie flung around him before stepping backwards, allowing Christian to take her by the elbow and steer her outside, throwing a glance over his shoulder as he did so. "Be careful! Those robots are dumb but fierce!"

"So were the Germans," Lawrence Sr. muttered under his breath.

**…**

Christian took Lizzie's hands in his, leaning forward to kiss her forehead, her nose, her trembling lips in an effort to calm her. "You were very brave," he murmured.

Lizzie's smile was wobbly. "So were you."

"Me? Nah!" Christian shook his head. "I was just trying to impress you."

"Well," she sniffled, "it worked."

He drew her close, resting his chin on her head. "It's going to be okay, Liz. It's gonna be fine."

Lizzie nodded and buried her head into his head, dearly wishing that she could just wrap herself into Christian's warmth and stay there, safe, forever.

When Christian's frame suddenly stiffened against her, however, she didn't need to turn around to see who was there.

Nevertheless she did, straightening up and pushing Christian away slightly—not to distance herself from him, but on some instinctual drive to protect him, to put herself between him and danger.

For Jack stood just feet away, eyes wide in disbelief, mustache quivering with rage. His eyes flicked to Christian and then back to Lizzie, narrowing when they did so. "So," he snarled, "that was what that was all about, wasn't it? You want to leave me for some poor boong?"

Christian's features contorted and he stepped forward, but Lizzie's arm flung out, catching him in the chest. He blinked down at her, momentarily startled out of his fury, and then took a step backwards when he saw the expression on her face.

"Yes, Jack," she replied, moving towards her husband with a grace born of white-hot anger.

Jack was there to meet her, quivering with fury. "What was that?"

"I said—"

And just as Jack's palm shot up to strike her, Lizzie's quick little fist collided with his chin. He howled at the sudden pain, dropping his hand back to his mouth instantly, and so that left Lizzie plenty of opportunity to snap her leg up and into his groin, adrenaline leading her strength as she did so.

Jack dropped like a stone, and a split-second later the keys to Senior's van clattered down beside him.

"I said," Lizzie panted, tucking a strand of stray hair behind her ear, "I want a divorce."

Christian did his best not to look too overjoyed.

**…**

Well. At least the Germans had put up a good fight.

The thought made Senior's mouth twitch upwards even as he continued to fire away into whatever robot was unfortunate enough to cross his path. The phantom pains from his old war wounds were suddenly less bothersome, and with each sparking humanoid that fell to him he felt a year younger. Flushed with victory, he stood at the top of a long winding staircase, preparing to descend.

Something thundered behind him and he wheeled around, gun at the ready.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa! Not a robot, not a robot!"

Blake's trembling hands rose into the air. He smiled a bit at Senior. "See? Unarmed. Totally and completely." He swallowed, eyes roving over the elder's appearance, before finally venturing forward with, "Er…who are you?"

"Who are you?" Senior demanded in return.

"Uh…I'm Blake. Not a robot, as you can see. Obviously. Um…I'm trying to help out Mister Lawrence. Lawrence Mundy. You know him?"

One of Senior's eyebrows gradually rose into his receding hairline. "That's my boy."

"Your boy?!" Blake's eyes widened in reverence. "Oh, wow! That's great! You can help me out, then!"

The second eyebrow rose to join the first. "Help you out with…?"

"Saving your son, sir!" Bouncing with exuberance, Blake retrieved the hefty toolbox he had dropped and all but sprung over to Senior. He grinned, hardhat lopsided. "Ready?"

"Erm…" Momentarily taken aback, Senior wasn't sure what to say. Finally he shook himself out of it. "Ready for what?! What's going on here, boy? Where is my son? What's with all the robots? And how do we stop all of this?"

Blake blinked, froze at the sheer number of questions, and then forced a grin. "_Well_…your son killed my boss, who came back preeety messed up, so _he_—my boss—tripped the alarm that activates the robots so that they could _kill_ Lawrence and his friend, who are currently trapped downstairs—or they were—and to stop all of this we need the password, which, admittedly, we don't have because I kinda sorta knocked out everyone who _did_. That's the story, sir."

"Are you tellin' me we don't have any way to stop these things?!"

"I did not say that, sir, what I said was everyone who knew the code has been knocked out." Blake replied, tone suddenly prim. He straightened out his hardhat once more. Delmond had told him the code, once, and since Blake had figured those robots would never see action there would be no need to remember it. It had had something to do with Texas…he shook himself out of the momentary reverie and stood a bit straighter. "Right now, what we have to do is find Lawrence. We'll worry about what comes next…when it comes." Breathless, he looked back to the old man. "Okay?"

"Fine," Senior replied, a little wary of the over-excitable youth. He pumped his shotgun. "Stay behind me, boy."

"'kay," Blake replied, rolling to the balls of his feet in excitement.

The odd pair descended the long metal staircase. As the sounds of distant sounds of gunshots grew louder, along with the grunts of pain and the clanking of metal on metal, Blake grew paler and paler. His sudden appearance did not escape Senior's notice, who grunted a consolatory, "Courage, lad."

"Yes, sir."

They reached the bottom of the stairwell without incident. Blake tilted his head to the side, thinking as he studied the floor ahead. "We need to contact them somehow. Get them to us…"

Senior glanced at the bullet-riddled ceiling and harrumphed loudly. "Shoddy work you people did building this factory."

Blake followed his eyes, and his eyes lit up. "Oh." He stooped to open the toolbox at his feet, pulling out a small circular frame. "This is gonna be good."

**…**

"How's the arm, spook?"

"Naagh….I'll—I'll live. You?"

"Jus' getting' started."

"Lawrence…" Spy's voice wavered, the result of pain and blood loss and the smallest hint of fear, "are we going to die 'ere?"

"God I hope not. Imagine? The last face I ever saw be yours! No, thanks." Sniper tried to keep a stiff upper lip, but his voice, too, was cracking. Fresh blood smeared the side of his face, blood dribbling down a gash in his forehead.

No living thing on Earth would ever slip quietly into that good night. Life was engineered to fight, to survive. Fear kept that ancient struggle going, and every creature who had ever faced death felt that fear—no matter how many brushes with death they had encountered.

That same icy tendril of fear slipped down the throats of Sniper and Spy now, burning them as it went, until it came to rest in their stomachs like a heavy stone. Death was coming, and it was not wearing the honorable face of a human opponent—it was cold, metallic, iron death that marched towards them, death that had no concept of mercy kills or a coup de grâce.

They were afraid.

And, for the first time in a very long time, Sniper could admit to it.

"I don't know what to do," he whispered hoarsely. He looked back to Spy, blue eyes wide. "I don't wanna die, spook. Not with my family upstairs. Not…not here." He pressed a hand to his chest, breathing hard and fast.

"Pull yourself together, man!" Spy snapped, fright spiking as he watched the stalwart Lawrence begin to crumble. "Lawrence, now is not the time! C'mon!"

They had been crouched around a corner, catching their breath, but now Spy pulled Sniper up with his good arm, steadying the panicking Aussie as best he could. "Lawrence, please! We need to get to the dispenser! LAWRENCE!"  
Spy's shout pierced through the mist like a bolt of lightning. Blinking, he looked to Spy and wiped some blood from his nose. "Sorry. I—sorry."

"It's all right—DUCK!"

Sniper's hand flew to his head and he was on his knees instantly. A split second later, Spy's knife was buried deep into the neck of an encroaching robot. Stunned, Sniper turned on his knees to stare at the robotic corpse before leaning over, yanking the knife out. Spy had staggered backwards, gasping loudly and clutching at his wounded arm. "Bordel de merde…"

"C'mon," Sniper murmured, handing the knife back to the Frenchman, "we're almost to the dispenser."

Suddenly that fear came back in full force. But instead of paralyzing ice, it came as thunder and fire, roaring in their ears and nipping at their heels, driving them backwards towards a vestige of safety. Fear brought adrenaline, fear awoke fury.

Fear brought the will to _live_.

While Sniper threw the door shut, Spy collapsed beside the dispenser, slamming his hand down on the pump, releasing the healing mist. He gasped as it folded over him, healing his shoulder and various smaller wounds. The bullet lodged in his shoulder clattered to the ground, and when he could roll his shoulder back fully Spy managed a smile. "Much better—"

"Phil."

"What?"

"Wasn't there a dead man in here?"

Spy's head popped over the dispenser. Sniper stood behind him, stock-still. There was the dispenser, the chair he had been bound in, and the ropes. The bloodied and dented baseball bat, the long, wicked knife.

But no Giancarlo.

Spy stood, eyes widening in horror. "Lawrence, he's not dead."

"But we—but I—"

"The Respawn, Lawrence."

Understanding clicked and Sniper swore vehemently. "Oh _shit_!"

"Oh shit is right," Spy replied grimly. "He's the one who turned those damn robots on, I'd wager—"

The suddenly familiar sound of creaking limbs and whirring gears interrupted him. As a pair they looked back to the closed door, reaching for their weapons. Spy snatched a few bullets from the dispenser and slid them into his revolver, while Sniper's grip on his kukri went white-knuckled.

"Phil?"

"Oui?"

The remaining robots were gathering outside the door now, and in his mind's eyes Sniper could see them blasting open the door, riddling the pair of them with bullets. He took a deep breath. "It's…it's been an honor."

Spy quirked an eyebrow and looked back to him. "I know." The response was accompanied by a smirk and an affectionate tone, and shoulder-to-shoulder they stood, the definition of solidarity, ready for whatever came next.

What did come next wasn't what they certainly expected, though.

An ear-splitting screech rang across the factory, like a needle scratching across a record. Sniper's kurki clanged to the floor as his hands snapped to his ears, bellowing curses.

"Sorry! Sorry, sorry, that's me, I don't really know how to work this…are we on? C-Can you hear me?"

Blake's voice, pitched and magnified, rang throughout the room. Upon recognizing it, Sniper's hands dropped to his sides. He gaped upwards in amazement. "Blake?! Where are you, lad?!"

"In a manager's office by the stairwell. They have this intercom system, it's really neat!—"

"JUNIOR!"  
What little color Sniper had managed to maintain through this escapade drained away. Spy's jaw dropped, and for an instance there was a confounded silence between the two.

"JUNIOR! CAN YA HEAR ME!?"

"There's no need to yell, Mister Mundy Senior, they can hear us just fine—"

"DAD?! WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?!"

"I _was_ coming to kill you, but apparently I have to save your sorry hide before I can do that!"

Sniper's head drooped and Spy could hear him laughing softly. When his giggles got under control again, he straightened. "Dad, ya won't believe how happy I am ta hear that."

"Just 'ow do you plan on getting us out of 'ere, by the way?" Spy demanded, folding his arms over his chest.

"Air vents!" Blake's cheery tone rang out once more. "If you can just get through the ceiling, you can make your way towards us without ever having to face a robot!"

Sniper and Spy exchanged glances. This was stupid. This was insane. This was going to get them all killed.

And, they realized as the pounding against the door began, this was the only idea they had.

Sniper crouched to one knee and cupped his hands together. "Up ya go."

Spy nodded and stepped up onto Sniper's hand, wobbling a bit as he planted the other into the Aussie's shoulder. Grimacing at the weight, nonetheless Sniper was able to boost Spy up towards the ceiling.

The Frenchman, who was no slouch himself, reached up carefully, pushing the panel of ceiling up and away. The pounding on the door was growing increasingly louder, but Spy forced himself to ignore it, grabbing onto the edge of the air vent and hoisting himself up into the dark, narrow passage. He hissed as a cloud of dust were stirred up, coating his suit. "What is this, a Bond film?"

"Bond's way more charismatic than you. Now get me up there!"

Spy's gloved hand shot down, wrapped around Sniper's and pulled him up into the tiny vent just as the door flew open. Sniper's scrambling legs disappeared into the ceiling just as gunfire began, and Spy slammed the ceiling panel down the moment he was up, cloaking them in darkness.

Patting around through the layer of dust, Spy tried not to breathe too quickly. Sniper made the mistake of doing so, and began to hack out a lungful of dust. "Goddammit! I can't see a thing!"

"Neither can I." Spy admitted, patting around the metal. "But we can't stay 'ere. Come. I'll lead."

Shimmying on his stomach, arms stretched out before him, Spy led the way through the vent. His heart raced, the blood roaring in his ears, and his stomach began to churn with nervousness as nothing but darkness stretched out before him. Several times Sniper got stuck, which didn't ease his nerves anyway, and the moment he felt the passage narrow some he froze.

Something flat and flesh bumped up against his shoe. "Ow! What's wrong, spook?"

"S-Stuck."

His chest was tightening. Numbness had spread from his fingers to his elbows, paralyzing him. His breath began to come in uneven spats. Too tight. It was far too tight, and he began to shimmying backwards, gasping for air. "Lawrence! I-I need to breathe Lawrence, I need air, I need—"

"We can't go anywhere, Phil!"

He screwed his eyes shut and buried his face into his arm, heaving.

"Phil?"

When the Frenchman didn't reply, Sniper shifted nervously. "Hey Phil. _Phil_."

"What?!"

"Wanna hear a joke?"

"A—a what?"

"A joke."

"It's…it's not really the time or place for this, is it?" Spy's voice rose in pitch, a sign of his panic.

Sniper shrugged, even though he knew full well Spy couldn't see him. "Might lighten up the atmosphere." The only reply he received was an exasperated groan, so Sniper decided it was safe to continue. "Stop me if you've heard this one. Did you hear about the fella who lost his left leg and his left arm in a car crash? Well—"

An all-mighty groan sounded out from beneath Sniper. As it did so his expression flickered to horror briefly. The panel supporting him when crashing down, and Sniper followed after with a bellow of shock and surprise.

When he was thirteen, he had gotten in a rough scuffle with several other boys. He'd been punched in the stomach so hard that his brain—and in turn, his entire body—forgot how to function. The sensation came back to him as he lay on his back on the cold tile floor, head ringing, the wind knocked right out of him. A small moan escaped him as Spy's head popped over the fallen panel. "Lawrence! Are you okay?"

Sniper's grinned up at him. He spat out a mouthful of dust before answering. "The fella who lost his left arm and his left leg? He's all right now."

Spy's eyes visibly widened in surprise. After a beat, he started laughing, the obnoxious snorting laughter ringing through the empty hallway. "That—ahah—that is the stupidest thing I 'ave ever 'eard—AAAAH!"

A lanky Frenchman was suddenly on the floor beside Sniper, covered in filth and moaning loudly. Sniper grinned and rolled over onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow. "Fancy meetin' you here."

"Ta gueule!" Spy grumbled, gingerly easing himself up into a sitting position. He rubbed the back of his head, fingers lighting over the swelling bump there, and groaned. "Come on." Testing every limb carefully, he stood and shook the dust off of himself, grumbling under his breath in French. As he went to put weight on his left leg, though, he yelped and crumbled to the ground. "Today," he groaned, "is not my day."

Sniper inspected the damage. "Sprained. You'll live." He glanced up and around. "Well, at least we're outta the range of the robots."

"Not for long. I don't care 'ow stupid they are, they'll 'ave 'eard that." Spy attempted to roll his sprained ankle around and grimaced when pain splintered his muscles.

The sound of running feet caught Sniper's attention and he stood, drawing his blade and standing over the downed Spy. He lowered it in an instant, though, when Blake popped around the corner. "Mister Lawrence! Are you two all right? We heard a big crash—"

"Funny thing about air vents, Blake," Sniper sheathed his blade, "they're designed to hold not much more than _air_."

"Sorry." Sheepish, Blake rubbed the back of his head. His shoulders hunched together before he spoke again, "C'mon, I have a teleporter set up ahead—it'll take us up the office where we can shut down the robots!"

"So we can shut them down?" Spy inquired from the floor.

"Weeell…kinda." Blake cringed backwards as both Sniper and Spy glared at him. "I—I mean, I only got told the code once! I don't remember—oh please don't yell at me please don't yell at me please don't yell at me—" Arms flapping, he backpedaled as Sniper advanced on him. A squeak escaped him as Sniper grabbed him by the collar, hauling him clean up off of the floor.

"You'd best start trying to remember, boy. Starting right now."

"I'd be able to try better if I had two feet on the floor, sir."

Sniper dropped him to the ground and Blake began to gulp gasps of air, rubbing at his throat and eying Sniper in amazement. The Aussie had turned around again, helping Spy to his feet. "Can you walk?"

"Slowly," Spy admitted, testing his ankle. He looked up to Blake. "Is Giancarlo alive?"

"In a…manner of speaking."

"That was a 'yes' or 'no' question, mon garçon."

"Yes."

Spy closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then reopened them. "Where is he?"

"I knocked him out," Blake replied with a hint of pride, pulling his wrench out of his toolbelt and flipping it through his fingers, "with this."

"Well done, kid. And my sister? Where's she?"

"Outside, I think. She was gone—and your dad was there—she's safe."

Sniper's shoulders relaxed visibly. "Good. Now let's go—"

Thundering footsteps echoed behind them wiped the grin from Blake's face. Spy's knees buckled and Sniper caught him, throwing his arm around his shoulders. "They heard us. C'mon, we gotta go!"

The first bullet pinged around the corner and Blake, frozen by terror, yelped as Sniper grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. Sniper pulled him towards cover. "Keep moving, boy!"

"The—the teleporter—"

"I know!"

Slowed by the injured Spy, the trio nonetheless darted the last few feet to the teleporter, where Senior waited with a cross expression. "There you are!"

"Not now, Dad, not now!" Sniper hissed. "Get on the teleporter, Dad!"

The elder Mundy arched an eyebrow and then looked to the hobbling Spy. "Phil first."

"Mundy, I insist—"

"The wounded take priority," the old man snarled, a glint coming into his eye.

"I'm not crippled!" Spy snapped, shoving himself off of Sniper and standing as straight as he was able.

"Guys—"

"Look, spook, jus' do as he says."

"Non! I'm not going first!"

"Well, if you're not going first, than Junior is!"

"Guys…"

"Wot?! DAD! I'm the able-bodied one! I'm going one! You go first!"

"GUYS!"  
All three older men looked to Blake, who pointed down the hallway. "We don't have time to argue."

For the first of the remaining robots had appeared. Sniper snatched the shotgun from his father and fired, sending a whizzing bullet straight into the robot's head. "There," he snarled towards his stunned father, "now yer unarmed. You go first."

Scowling, Senior stepped up onto the circular pad. The teleporter buzzed to life, and in a whizzing motion Senior disappeared. Sniper wasted no time, shoving Spy up onto the teleporter. Before the Frenchman could even fathom a protest, he, too, had disappeared.

Sniper fired off another round into the next robot that came around the corner. "Onto the teleporter, lad."

"Age before beauty, sir," Blake shot back, even as he backed up to the wall.

"That wasn't a suggestion." Sniper snarled, eyes flashing as he looked to Blake. Blake hesitated, and then inched behind Sniper and towards the teleporter. Sniper snorted and looked back to the encroaching robots. "I'll be right behind ya—AH!"

For Blake, with a surprising strength considering his frame, had grabbed Sniper by the coat and yanked him backwards onto the teleporter. Gunfire sounded, but Sniper could pay it no heed as the world became a spinning mess of colors and sounds. A whooshing noise rang through his ears, and then he was stumbling forward into a nondescript hallway.

His father caught him as he fell and straightened him up. "You all right?"

"Fine. W-where's Blake? Where's the boy? WHERE IS HE?"

He rounded on the teleporter, breath held, stomach churning in fear and anticipation. After several breathless seconds, the circular pad sparked, and a spinning form appeared. Blake's figure materialized, and his glassy eyes locked on Sniper.

Sniper caught the boy and dragged him off of the teleporter, glaring down at the bullet wounds in his leg. Blood was coating his hands even as he tore off his jacket, wrapping it around Blake's leg. "I told you to go first!"

"Sorry," Blake whimpered, staring down at his leg as if he'd never seen if before, "I—I just—I tried—"

"It doesn't matter," Sniper muttered. "Don't cry."

The last was added as he saw Blake's eyes watering with tears. The blond nodded and wiped at his eyes hastily. "It hurts," he moaned.

"I know. But we can't focus on that right now. Where do we need to go?"

Still whimpering, Blake pointed towards a nondescript office. Spy was already there, one foot hovering off of the ground carefully. Sniper looked to his father, who understood the wordless message and helped him get Blake up off the floor. The blond leaned heavily on Sniper, gasping as the shock wore off and reality set in. "Oh…I got shot…Oh God, I got shot…"

"Focus, kid, I need you here." Sniper half-carried, half-dragged Blake into the office, his father on his heels.

Spy drew his revolver in order to destroy the teleporter, but even as he took aim it began to spin once more, a metallic body materializing. He snarled. "Gentlemen…we 'ave company."

"Damn," Sniper cursed, "they don't give up easy, do they?"

"They're—they're not programmed to…"

"Stay with me, kid," Sniper's voice remained firm as he lowered Blake to the floor. Beyond him, Spy was making quick work of the robot before slamming the door shut, locking it firmly.

"You think locks are going to stop those things?" Senior grumbled. He took his place by the door, shotgun in hand.

Spy glared at him before hobbling over the motherboard, staring up at the password prompt. The blinking cursor seemed to be taunting him. On the floor beside the computer was the mottled Giancarlo, still out cold. Spy eyed him with something resembling pity before glancing back over his shoulder at Sniper. "We need that password."

Suddenly, a robotic arm punched right through the thick wooden door, arm grasping wildly. Blake yelped in shock, Sniper scuttled backwards, and Spy went rigid, but Senior simply raised his shotgun to mid-level and fired. The bullet went right through the arm, causing it to flop limply to the ground. Outside the room, the sound of creaking metal could be heard, as if the robot was contemplating this new development.

Hand over his racing heart, Sniper looked back to his father in awe. "And I always thought I got my aim from Mum's side of the family."

"Don't flatter yerself, boy. Spend some forty years operatin' on squirmy brats like you and you've got yourself an eagle's eye."

"I didn't squirm," Sniper managed under his breath before looking back to the paling Blake. "Lad, do you remember the password?"

For the moment, Blake was too preoccupied with his bullet-riddled leg to hear Sniper. Grasping at it uselessly, he was swearing to himself. "That's a lot of blood, that's a lot of blood, that's a lot of blood…"

"Blake," Sniper's voice took on an edge and the youth's head snapped upwards to stare at him, "the password."

"I—I don't remember it!" Blake flinched as Senior fired at the door again, growling. "Oh God, we're gonna die here, aren't we?"

"Not if you know the password. I need you to stay calm for me, Blake." Sniper kept his tone even and level, speaking to the shivering boy as he might a cornered and injured animal. The bushman moved so that he was kneeling down beside him, eyes locked on his own. Aware that both Spy and his father were watching him, he reached out, planting a firm hand on Blake's shoulder. "I need you to stay calm. We're not going to die."

"Swear it?"

"On my life."

Blake sniffed loudly and nodded, trust in Sniper implicate. "Okay," he croaked, tears trickling down his face.

"Good. You're going to be fine, Blake. Okay, now, the password."

Blake pressed a blood-soaked hand to his to forehead, features contorting in concentration. Panting heavily, his other hand curled into a fist. His mind was racing a mile a minute, clawing backwards in time in desperation. "Aargh…it had something to do with Texas!"

"Well, that narrows it down, doesn't it?" Spy snapped, loud enough for Blake to hear.

The blond cringed, and Sniper made a quick snapping motion with his arm, silently telling Spy to shut up or face the consequences. In the distance the sound of a whirring teleporter started, indicating that the rest of the robots had figured it out.

Senior said nothing, did nothing about the approaching danger. For the moment his shotgun was ideal in his hands. He watched his son with rapt attention.

"Something to do with Texas," Sniper breathed, "good, good, yer doin' great." He laid one hand down, putting a steady pressure on Blake's wounded leg. "Jus' a bit more, lad."

The Engineer's voice was ringing in his ears through the haze of pain and panic. Unconsciously he stretched his arm out, trying to grab for the answer. His mind blocked out the encroaching robots, the rapid gunshots as Senior pumped them full of lead, and Sniper's ragged breathing in his ear. He knew answer! He knew it! It was just one more puzzle to be solved, one more wire to be connected. Weakly he reopened his eyes. "It's a fort. It's the name of a fort."

"Teufort?"

"N-no…no…a fort...in Texas…Ah…Ah…"

Baffled, Sniper and Spy exchanged despairing glances. Neither of them were well-versed in Texan lore. Blake began to wring his hands together as more robot arms punched their way through the door, red eyes gleaming through the increasing cracks. "Ah…Ah…"

"C'mon, Blake, think!" Even as he spoke Sniper sprung up and pulled out his kukri, hacking at a robotic limb. A bullet from Spy's revolver went straight into the glass eye of another, shattering it.

"Ah…ah…"

"BLAKE!"

"ALAMO!"

Stunned into silence, Sniper looked at his father. "What did you say?"

"I said," the elder Mundy snarled, pulling more bullets from his pocket as he spoke, "it's Alamo."

"Alamo!" Blake echoed, head snapping upwards. "That's it! A-L-A-M-O!"

The letters were thundered towards Spy, nearly drowned out by the pounding against the door. The door flew off its hinges, and as Sniper flung himself in front of his father Spy slammed ALAMO into the keyboard.

The password prompt box disappeared.

"Welcome to the Security Center," the computer chimed.

"COMPUTER! SHUT DOWN ALL ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE UNITS NOW!"

Blake bellowed the order with the last of his strength, and as he collapsed back the computer obeyed.

The light dimmed from the robots' eyes. They froze mid-motion in their onslaught, guns whirring softly into silence.

For a brief moment there was nothing but quiet. And then, Sniper began to laugh, the laughter of a shaken, uneasy man. Breathing heavily in relief, he turned to his father in amazement. "Alamo! Bloody goddamn Alamo!—"

"Damn predictable Texans," Spy muttered under his breath, refusing to admit even to himself how quickly his heart was beating.

"Alamo," Sniper repeated, "how'd you know that?"

"Two am telly." Senior shrugged. "When the pain keeps you up at night, you'll watch anything to keep your mind off of it—OI!" He stiffened as Sniper flung his arms around him in a bear hug.

"I'm sorry, Dad," he managed, voice cracking.

Awkwardly, Senior reached up, patting his back. He knew what he would say next carried an inevitable weight, and so he enunciated carefully. "I'm proud of you, Lawrence." He smiled, actually, genuinely smiled as Sniper pulled back, ogling his father. "You kept a cool head under fire, and you helped the others do the same. You did the right thing—" here he glanced at the impassive Spy "—even though it meant pissing me off in the process. You did well, son. Even for an assassin."

"Crazed gunman," Sniper corrected, voice gruff, "so…you ain't gonna kick my arse, then?"

"Not today."

The temporarily forgotten Spy cleared his throat. "As much as I love a touching family reunion, I'd also like to get out of 'ere before…'e wakes up." He glanced down at the stirring Giancarlo.

Sniper nodded, landing back in reality. "Roight. Blake, how's the leg? Blake…? BLAKE!"

The blond was slumped down, head lolled to his shoulder, face pale and completely unresponsive. Sniper was beside him in an instant, trembling hands searching for a pulse. It was there, steady but growing fainter. He gathered the boy up into his arms. "C'mon, we need to get help!"

Senior offered his support to the wobbly Spy, who took it graciously. Sniper redoubled his grip on the unconscious Blake and darted through the threshold—

—only to run right into the BLU Engineer.

The Texan stood completely still, blinking up at the Sniper and his charge wearily. His gaze lowered, looking blankly at the bits and pieces of metal and wire scattered around, the remnants of the prototype robot army. The pieces began to fall into place, and with quickening breath he looked back to Sniper. "What did you do, Slim?"

The RED hadn't moved, but he had shifted Blake up a little higher onto his shoulder. "I could ask you the same question, Tex," he murmured, a feral glint in his eyes. Behind him, Spy and Senior remained silent, watching the confrontation carefully.

"I did what I was paid too!"

"And I did what I had to keep my family safe," Sniper replied evenly.

Engineer noted the old man behind Sniper before looking back to him. "Give me one good reason I should let you go."

Spy shoved off of Senior, limping forward. "I'll give you three. One, I'm certain Builder's League United would be fascinated as to why you are suddenly lending your talents to a rival company. Especially considering you're using Respawn—albeit a flawed formula. Two, Apeture would be startled to find out you 'ave been stealing their designs. And three," he stepped forward, going toe-to-toe with the shorter man, "there's three of us and one of you. You're a man of mathematics, Engineer. You know the odds."

The BLU's electric blue eyes roved over Spy for a moment, mouth firm. "Why'd you come here in the first place, spook?"

"Curiosity," Spy hissed. "And nothing more. You brought this on yourself." He swept his arm out, indicating the wreckage.

A vein jumped in Engineer's neck. Sniper cleared his throat. "Let us go, Slim. Let us go, and we swear we won't bring this up to anyone. Not a soul."

Engineer considered him. "Give me the boy. I can get him to safety faster than you can." The last was added in slight exasperation as Sniper clutched Blake to him. "Give him to me, Slim. The boy's my protégé. I won't let anything happen to him—can't afford to. He's too smart to replace."

Hesitantly, Sniper eased Blake into Engineer's arms, expression troubled. Engineer looked into his aviator-hidden eyes firmly. "Not a word."

"Australian's honor, Tex."

Sniper kept his eyes locked on Engineer even as he slid an arm around Spy, supporting him. The pair went stumbling down the staircase, and Senior followed suit, glancing at Engineer wordlessly and without judgment.

The Engineer didn't move until their footsteps on the staircase no longer echoed back to him. Only then did he look at the conscious young man in his arms. "C'mon, boy," he growled, "can't have you die on me."

Carrying Blake as one might a sack of flour, he moved with a deliberate pace to his dark, cluttered workshop. Laying Blake down beside a half-finished sentry, Engineer moved to his desk, pulled open a drawer, and yanked out a vial full of liquid gold. He needed to work quickly if he wanted to save that leg.

Side effects be damned.

The instant the Australium was in his system, his mind began to whirl and wheel. Flashes of thoughts darted across his mind like lightening, and that lightening coursed through his system as easily as blood. It boosted him, gave him a speed and a strength that he might not have otherwise. The office around him faded into a blur, only his goal keeping him grounded. Before a small dispenser was placed beside Blake, and the healing spray was misting over him. The blond stirred and moaned as his leg was healed, but did not wake.

Engineer stumbled back against his desk, rubbing at his forehead. The symptoms of Australium were beginning set in, hard and fast. Colors flashed across his vision, brightening and darkening the room simultaneously. The thoughts in his mind were racing faster now, and he struggled to catch one, to hold onto it. Voices began to whisper harshly in his ear, demanding justice for the blood-covered Blake, and vengeance on the shattered robot army.

Someone had to pay.

He was dimly aware of his body standing, grabbing a long, slender rifle from somewhere. He was above his body, with it but not in it, watching from behind a veil as his body climbed upwards, stumbling into the small attic, towards a window.

Someone _would _pay.

**…**

"LAWRENCE!"

Lizzie all but tackled him, hugging him so tightly he couldn't breathe. Sniper grinned and returned the hug, lifting her up slightly as he did so. "Hey Liz."

"God—I was so scared—"

"What? Of a few buckets of bolts? Bah!" Sniper winked and eased himself out of her grasp. He didn't let go of her hand, though, giving it a reassuring squeeze. His eyes went to Christian. "Everything okay?"

"Just dandy out here, Mundy. You?"

"Just fine." Sniper squared his hat onto his head. "We jus' need to get Phil home."

"Do not treat me like some invalid!" Spy snapped, hobbling past Sniper and towards the van. He stopped short. "Where's Jack?"

"He and I…had a slight disagreement. He took your truck, I hope you don't mind." Lizzie looked to her father, who scrutinized her carefully before shrugging, muttering about how he needed a new car anyways.

The sun was inching upwards over the horizon, casting pinks and blues and yellows into the sky, dispelling the darkness. Spy looked towards the rising sun, suddenly overwhelmed. It had been one _very_ long night. "Let's go 'ome."

It was at that moment Sniper noticed something off. A small red light—certainly no trick of the weak sunlight—was aimed directly at Spy's back. Head tilted, he squinted at the light. It looked familiar…very familiar…almost as if it was the scope of a…

"PHIL!"

Thunder blasted overhead, and at the same time Spy felt a huge weight shoving him forward, pushing him into the hard dirt. Everything went upside down and topsy-turvy, hard rocks and pebbles digging into his flesh and a strange pain in his abdomen.

When his heartbeat lessened and earth and sky untangled themselves from each other, the first thing Spy became aware of was a wet, hot stickiness coating his back.

The second realization was that it did not belong to him.

He looked up, and as he did so time crawled to an agonizing crawl, allowing him to take in every minute detail in horrifying clarity.

Sniper stood above him, a faint, puzzled expression on his face. And then he looked down, down to the deep red blood blossoming across his chest. The puzzlement twisted into terror. He opened to mouth, but instead of words more blood bubbled up, running down his chin like dribble. He heaved, and the action brought him to his knees. Still grasping at the bullet wound, deaf to the screams around him, blind to the stricken Spy before him, Sniper stared at something only he could see, an imperceptible horror that could not be shared.

Then, with all the finality of death, Lawrence Mundy Junior pitched forward.

When his lanky body hit the ground, the light was gone from his bright blue eyes.


	23. Only Mostly Dead

Hey guys! Sorry about the wait (this chapter was, by far, the most difficult thing I've ever had to force myself to write), and thanks so so so much for the fantastic reviews! Hopefully this chapter will live up to the last one, but...we'll see.

* * *

_**Chapter Twenty-Two: Only Mostly Dead**_

Blood coated his hands, running down his fingers, across his palms, staining his wrists. Growling, Spy yanked on the water faucet and stuck his bloodied hands under the scalding hot water. He began to rub them together in a fury, trying and failing to get the red off of his hands.

It wasn't coming off. It wasn't coming off, and it was going to stain, just like Lawrence's blood had, because that hadn't come off either, but he had gone hours and hours and hours before he had realized that Lawrence's blood was still on his hands, and it had stained his skin so deeply that no matter how hard he scrubbed and lathered it wouldn't come off—it wasn't coming off, it wasn't coming off and there was nothing he could do—

"Phil?"

His head jerked upwards, glassy eyes staring at Lizzie. "Yes?"

The red-eyed Lizzie pretended not to notice Spy's hands, which were raw and swelling from their dunk. She swallowed hard. "Is everything okay?"

"Yes…I just…I just got some chicken blood on me, that's all. I was 'elping your mother…with dinner…" His voice faded into silence as he pulled a towel off the of the wall rack, drying his hands furiously. "Did you need something?"

"Dad and I are going…going to see Lawrence in a little bit. Do you want to come?"

An oppressive silence followed as Frenchman and Aussie stared at each other. "No," Spy finally replied. "No, I'd rather stay 'ere, if it's all the same to you."

"He'd want you to go. He'd go for you!"

"I am not your brother, Elizabeth," Spy snarled, gray-blue eyes flashing, "and the sooner you remember that, the better." He stepped out of the bathroom, or at least tried to, for Lizzie grabbed him by the hand. "Let me go."

"NO!" Lizzie thundered. "You haven't gone to visit him, you haven't seen him! He took a bullet in the back for you, Philippe, the least you could do is go see him—"

"AND DO WHAT?!" His stretched nerves snapped, and Spy rounded on Lizzie, fists clenched. "What do you propose I do, Elizabeth? Just sit there and watch him die minute by minute? What's the use in sitting by a deathbed if the man in it can't even hear what we're saying to him?"

"Lawrence isn't dying," Lizzie retorted, voice cracking.

"'e is, Elizabeth. And the sooner you accept that fact the sooner you can move on." Tone cold, he turned away so that he didn't have to see the hurt in Lizzie's eyes. He kept his back to her, staring at a painting on the wall.

"Lawrence would never give up on you, Phil." Lizzie's voice reflected his cold, and then magnified it tenfold. "The least you could is extend the same faith to him."

At her words Spy finally spun around again, eyes flashing. "_Faith_," he snarled, "does not bring anyone back! It never 'as, and it never will. Let 'im die in peace, Elizabeth, rather than trying to drag out the inevitable!" His hands curled into useless fists.

Lizzie's lips pursed. For an instant there was silence, broken only by Spy's heaving breath. "It should have been you," she finally muttered.

Momentarily taken aback by her words—and the dark implication—Spy stared at her, lost for words. Lizzie took the sudden silence as her opportunity to turn on her heel and leave. She did so with a dirty look thrown over her shoulder, and nothing else.

Only when her footsteps faded did a small, broken voice whisper:

"I know."

**…**

The argument had rung throughout the house, loud and clear, but nevertheless Dotty shut off the small television to hear it better. The screen slowly faded to black, image of the grinning daytime talk show host eerily imprinted for a moment. Dotty paid the television no mind as Lizzie came stomping down the stairs. She grabbed her coat from the rack and pulled it on, every movement quivering with anger.

"Tell Lawrence I said hello," Dotty murmured.

Lizzie glanced her way, nodded once, and disappeared out the door, where her father was waiting.

Philippe didn't descend until well after Lizzie and Senior had left. When he did his gait was slow and stumbling, only in part because he still couldn't put much weight on one ankle. For the most part, though, his gait was stumbling because he didn't want to face anyone downstairs.

When his feet hit the landing, he didn't even look at Dotty, preferring to keep his eyes lowered to the floor. He mumbled something about needing to step outside for a smoke, and then nearly vanished on the spot.

Undeterred, Dotty rose from her spot and followed him. If he wanted to avoid her, he was going to have to try harder than that.

**…**

He was out of cigarettes.

And that was the last straw.

A sharp, knife-like sensation plunged into his gut, ripping upwards like a zipper, and along with it came an awful scream of frustration and pent-up fury. Blindly, he struck out at the nearest thing—a tree—and relished the hot pain that splintered up his arm when his fist collided with the bark.

He struck again, still bellowing wordlessly, because the pain edged out everything else. It was easy to focus on the pain, that awful heat that took priority over guilt and fear.

Panting, he sank to his knees, resting his head against the tree.

He shouldn't have stayed. The minute Lawrence was secure he should have left, for his sake as well as the Mundys'. It was easier to run away, easier to put distance between himself and his guilt, rather than face the brunt of Dotty's sorrow, or Senior's silent disapproval. He hated himself, he hated that churning sensation in his gut, he hated having to look Dotty in the eyes, and above all he hated Lawrence.

Lawrence didn't have to play the hero. Lawrence had more to live for, far more worth living for, than he did. He didn't have put himself in harm's way—but he had and now instead of getting ready for Christmas he was clinging to life by a thread in a cold, stark hospital bed.

Every detail was emblazoned into his mind like a hot brand. Lawrence's blood coating his hands and his suit as he desperately attempted to staunch the blood, the frantic drive to the hospital with Christian in the driver's seat and Senior performing rudimentary medical care as Lawrence bled out, the bullet having grazed his spine and lodged itself into his abdomen.

It was sheer luck that kept him alive long enough to get to a hospital. It was Lawrence's clenched-teeth grit that had him surviving surgery.

But no amount of luck or strength was enough to wake him up. No amount of Lizzie's pleading and Dotty's gentle administrations was enough to stir him. He hadn't moved, hadn't spoken, and the surgeon's prognosis had been grim. Even if Lawrence made it through the night, no amount of medical magic could save his spine, or help him recover fully. Even if he made a day and a night, there was no guarantee of his survival. Even if he woke up, there was a chance he would never walk again.

That had been three days ago.

And Spy had never felt more helpless in his entire life.

He shifted his stance so that he was resting on the ground, knees brought to his chest. He planted his face into his knees, not caring how immature the action might have been, and prepared for a long stay. He refused to look up when soft footfalls neared.

"You forgot your cigarettes inside, dear."

Slowly Spy lifted his head out of his knees, glancing upwards at Dotty. A pack of cigarettes dangled from her hand. "Thank you," he managed, lifted one arm up and taking the pack from her. Shakily he popped one into his mouth and lit it. He didn't inhale, just let the burning stick hang out of his mouth precariously.

When a gentle hand came under his chin he flinched, but didn't move as Dotty raised his eyes to hers. "Philippe," she murmured, "talk to me."

The last thing he wanted to do was talk. The last thing he knew how to do was talk when it came to situations like this. So he wrenched himself out of Dotty's grasp and lowered his eyes once more. "There's nothing to talk about," he stated tersely.

"You and I both know that's not true," Dotty chided. Carefully, with movements that betrayed just as how old she was, she lowered herself down to sit under the tree with Philippe.

He kept his gaze averted, knees drawn to his chest.

Dotty looked out over the small farm, which teemed with life. Small insects trilled and birds chirped as they moved from tree to tree. Blades of grass rustled as a small snake slid through, a mouse skittering across the ground ahead of it.

She sighed, a low, heavy sigh that carried the weight of more than one woe. "Don't think too poorly of Lizzie. She has a lot on her mind."

One of Philippe's eyes flicked to her, and then forwards again. "She's right."

"About what?"

"It should 'ave been me."

For a time there was silence. Dotty digested the information slowly, churning it over in her mind. "Do you really think that?"

"Yes." There was a pause, and then he added, in a slightly surprised tone, "You don't?"

"Of course not, dear! I'd be devastated, no matter who was in the hospital bed."

"I'm not your son, Dotty."

"You're as good as," the old woman stated firmly, "and I don't like seeing you in pain."

"I'm not—"

"Oh, do shut up, Philippe!"

The Frenchman clamped his maw shut, staring at Dotty with eyes bulging out of his head. Dotty glared at him, arms crossed over her chest. "Give an old mother a little credit where credit is due. You're terrified, and you don't know what to do. I understand."

Philippe scooted backwards a bit. "I'm not scared," he muttered. Indignation flared into his chest. He never got scared. Fright was not something a Spy was allowed to feel. His hands curled into tight, useless fists. "And you don't know a thing about me."

"Attempting to step outside yourself is a marvelous exercise, Philippe. I would recommend that you try it sometime."

Philippe glared at her before lowering his eyes to the ground. "It's too risky."

"You'd be surprised." Dotty interlocked her fingers and put them behind her head. "And you might learn a thing or two about people besides how to exploit their dirty secrets."

"I've never—"

"I'm talking about your occupation, Philippe."

He stiffened, perceptively. "You know." The answer was unemotional, flat, but taunt, like a string about to snap. "How do you know?"

"Lawrence has never been as good as keeping secrets as he might like to think. At least, keeping secrets from me."

Philippe kept his gaze forward, mouth stretching into a thin line. "I see. And I also see that you think you know everything about me."

"Not everything." Dotty corrected. "Just enough to know what you're going through."

"Explain."

When silence ensued, Philippe scoffed and made to stand once more. He should have known. The last thing he wanted or needed was some old woman trying to wheedle emotion out of him—

"It was 1915."

Philippe paused, glancing back at her.

Dotty looked straight ahead, nonplussed. "It was 1915. The war was on, and Senior and I were freshly married. Even so…even so he volunteered to join the army. They were going to need plenty of medics, he told. And then he laughed—he laughed and told me that the enemy would need plenty more."

Philippe tilted his head to the side, listening and wondering.

"It was only after he was gone…that I discovered I was pregnant."

Instantly Philippe's eyes shot to her. He was doing the math in his head, and when his calculations were complete his mouth was left hanging open a little bit. Lawrence was in his forties…he'd been born after the end of the war…

His heart plunged into his stomach.

"I didn't want to write Senior a letter, that seemed too informal. So I decided that, on his next shore leave, I would present him with the good news. But a few months into the pregnancy…I lost the baby," Dotty's arms fell back into her lap. She looked down at her calloused hands, cracked and swollen from many a dunk into soapy water. Her voice remained gentle. "He was such a little thing, you know, hardly bigger than a loaf of bread. The doctors told me it wasn't uncommon, that I was young and healthy yet, there'd be plenty of other chances…they didn't understand, not really, and Senior was off at war…I'd never felt so broken, so alone in my entire life. If given the choice, I might have curled up and died with my baby boy."

Philippe slipped back down the truck of the tree to sit beside her once more. "But you weren't given the choice," he murmured. "Your baby boy—he was gone where you couldn't follow."

"I never told Senior. About any of it. It was my burden to bear, the grief and the sorrow and the—the constant blaming…I hadn't been strong enough, hadn't been steady enough—there had been an innocent human being depending on me to bring him into this world, and I _failed_ him. At the time, I didn't think there was anyone who could understand what I was going through."

An unpleasant ball of hot iron formed in Philippe's throat. "And now?"

"Now…well, sorrow isn't a competition, is it, dear? It's impossible to feel someone else's pain as completely as they do, but…it doesn't hurt to try."

Lawrence had something to that effect, Philippe recalled, and he resisted the temptation to squirm in guilt.

"I wasn't a pretty fresh-faced girl when Lawrence was born," Dotty continued. "He was a miracle to me, Philippe. I was beginning to think I'd never be able to have children when he came along. I…promised him I would always be there for him, that I wouldn't fail him like I had failed his brother. But now…now he's someplace I can't reach him. Perhaps I don't know everything about you, Philippe Vidal, but I know enough to see that what you're going through isn't new to you. And you _don't_ have to go through it alone."

Although it was just the pair of them, on the last line her voice dipped into an affectionate whisper. She leaned over and pressed her hand into his shoulder. "Go see him, Philippe. It would do you both good."

"I—" Philippe's voice cracked "I wouldn't know what to do."

"Philippe—" Dotty's voice grew stern, "—there are some things you just cannot leave unfinished."

Blue eyes locked onto blue eyes, and finally Philippe nodded.

**…**

They had been taking turns at the hospital, standing vigil over Lawrence's bedside. When they took a seat in the uncomfortable guest chair, time seemed to slow to an agonizing crawl, scuttling along on hands and knees, grappling minute by minute. A day and a night could pass in that chair, and for the rest of the world it would only be an hour. It possessed its own sort of power, one that drained the energy and the liveliness from its occupant, and the more they looked upon the dying man in front of them, the more that damn chair drained hope away too.

So it was with immense trepidation that Philippe lowered himself into the seat, crossing one leg over his knee and planting entwined hands into his lap.

His gray-blue eyes darkened as they flicked over Lawrence's frame. The tall Aussie was lying, still and unmoving, in a crisp white hospital bed. The sheets were drawn up around him, but he could still catch a glimpse of the bandages wrapped around his chest. A breathing tube had been shoved into his mouth and nostrils, making his shallow breath rattle with each rise and fall of his chest. Lawrence looked ten years older and ten years frailer.

A shiver ran down Philippe's spine at the sheer unnaturalness of it all.

At a loss, he turned to Dotty, who just pressed a finger to her lips and slowly retreated out of the room, shutting the door behind her. This was something he was going to have to do on his own.

Of course, a little eavesdropping never hurt anyone.

The hospital corridors had been darkened for the evening. All through the wing there came coughs and beeping monitors, echoing footsteps and nurses flicking pages on trashy romances novels to ease the boredom.

Slowly Dotty eased herself up against the door, listening intently.

There was the sound of a scraping chair, no doubt being scooted closer to Lawrence, and the loud clasping and unclasping of nervous hands.

"Erm…good evening, Lawrence. I know…I haven't been around much. Which is to say, not at all. I do 'ope you'll forgive me, you know 'ow I am with hospitals. And especially…in situations like these." His voice was soft, words tumbling over themselves.

Oh dear, Dotty mused, he was quite terrible at this sort of thing, wasn't he?

"It's your mother who convinced me to come, you know. She's quite the persuasive woman. It seems as though you inherited most of your personality from her—and thank God for that, considering the other option!"

A bout of nervous, one-sided laughter and then silence once more.

"I—I never said thank you, Lawrence, and I'm sorry for that. Thank you for saving my life, _twice_, and for opening up your 'ome to me. It's not easy, being friends with a Spy, I know, and God knows it's not easy being friends with me especially. If you'll still consider me a friend after this. I wouldn't blame you if you didn't, rest assured."

She tried to picture him, he who had been the persona of cool and detached, twitching and fidgeting in that chair. Her heart stirred.

"You know…this whole vacation you've been trying to push me out of myself. I didn't realize it, and, I think, neither did you. Not until that very last push…GODDAMMIT, LAWRENCE!"

Philippe's voice shot upwards but Dotty didn't move. Anger was natural. She'd be more concerned if he wasn't furious.

"WHY DID YOU DO IT, LAWRENCE?! WHY DID YOU HAVE TO PLAY THE HERO! IT'S NOT FAIR!" There was a loud thud, like a chair being shoved over, and Dotty could almost see him, pacing around the room and throwing his arms into the air. "NOT TO YOU, NOT TO ME, AND ESPECIALLY NOT TO YOUR FAMILY! THEY LOVE YOU, LAWRENCE, THEY LOVE YOU AND YOU PISSED THAT ALL WAY! AND FOR WHAT?! YOU—" A strangled, choking noise "—you pissed it all away for _me_. How am I supposed to forgive you for that? Me—I don't have—I don't have anything to live for, Lawrence, not like you do. You have people that care about you, who are here every day and night, begging you to come back. It was a stupid, selfish move on your part, Lawrence. You're not dying a hero's death! You're just…dying.

"You see, Lawrence, the people I care about have this funny habit of dying on me. My stepfather, Antoine and Henri, Lorraine…they all left me behind. And it hurts, you know, it hurts with every fiber of your being because they're gone and they're safe and you're still here, scared and hurting and wondering who'll be the next to go. I'm tired of it, Lawrence, and I don't care how selfish that sounds. I'm tired of shoving all the pain away and pretending it doesn't exist, _because it doesn't work_. And that's what you and your mother have been trying to tell me this whole time, and I am such a stupid, selfish fuck that I didn't even realize it until now! I swear to God, Lawrence, I hope you can hear me in there because you were right! YOU—WERE—RIGHT! You were right, and I was wrong, and it's my fault that you're here because I'm a stubborn, idiotic coward who cannot think outside of himself until it's too late! IT'S MY FAULT! IT'S MY FAULT AND—and—and I'm so, so, so sorry."

Silence fell. Dotty pictured Philippe, standing in front of the bed, perhaps wiping a few tears from his eyes, perhaps rubbing his arms for comfort, perhaps glancing around aimlessly. Finally he spoke again. "If there was one thing I could ask of you, one miracle I could get down on my knees and beg for…_please don't die_. If there's one person—one person!—I could count on to break the streak, it'd be you, Lawrence. Please…I don't want to lose another brother."

More silence, and then a scoff. "You know, you're the only one who can make me lose my cool like this. I honestly don't know 'ow you do it. Since the very first moment we met, you have been a thorn in my side. Of course, I doubt you thought much better of me. Do—do remember the very first time we met? Not the first time we battled together, but the very, very first time we met?

"It was in the lobby of RED's recruitment office. You remember that gaudy building, I'm certain, because you looked so—_damn_—out of place. You were dressed in what you might have thought was your best clothes, but there were sweat stains under the armpits and a blob of mustard on the collar. It was a disgusting display, honestly. But you came swinging out of the interview with a smile on your face, so I suppose it well. Even so…

"Even so, the mere thought of working with a man like you—hell, working with you—made me shudder. So as we passed, not even looking at each other…I sort of…stuck my foot out."

He chuckled, softly. "You went toppling right into a water fountain. It was the most embarrassing display I'd ever seen—and in front of all those people too! I doubt you realized it was me who had tripped. I don't know if you ever realized. Maybe you did. Maybe that's what kicked off our feud. But I suppose it's not really a feud at this point, is it? No…the truth is, Lawrence…the truth is that you are my best friend, and…and I'm going to miss you.

"I still don't know what I'm going to tell the team. Or how I'm going to tell them. Or how on earth I'm supposed to adjust to another Sniper. You're like a pungent smell, Lawrence, revolting at first, but the more I'm exposed to you the more used to you I become. I mean, who else am I going to bunk cigarettes off of…not Soldier, certainly, and definitely not M—"

There was a quick intake of breath, so sharp and so sudden that a knife might have just slid through Philippe's back. Dotty straightened in worry, and it was fortunate that she did so, because an instant later Philippe had burst out of the room. Not even caring about Dotty's proximity to the room, he looked down at her, a joyous grin on his face. "I know what to do."

He bent down, grabbed Dotty by the shoulders, and kissed her quickly on both cheeks before racing off down the hall. Bemused, Dotty rubbed at her face and looked after him, wondering what had gotten into the Frenchman now.

**…**

Oh, he was an idiot.

Oh, he was _such_ an idiot.

Mentally kicking himself for being so slow on the uptake, Spy skidded to a stop beside a payphone. Cursing himself under his breath, he grabbed the receiver—

—and froze.

Doubt clouded his mind. What if Medic wasn't there? What if Medic refused to speak to him? He hadn't exactly left the German on best terms.

Gnawing at the bottom of his lip, Spy considered his options. His grip on the receiver tightened. If Medic refused to help, then he would go to America and drag him back here by force. Taking a steadying breath, he punched Teufort's private line into the number pad and waited.

It rang. And rang. And rang. And with each soft, successive _bzzzz_ in his ear Spy's nerves shot upwards, constricting his throat. He tried to rehearse what he was going to say, but his nerves were jumbling his words, tumbling them over and over in a mess of confusion and trepidation.

So when a hoarse voice finally came over the other end with a soft "Hallo?" Spy jumped a foot into the air and hastily cleared his throat.

"Josef." Even he was surprised at how calm and unruffled he managed to make his voice. Damn, he was good. "Good evening. Or morning. Whichever."

"Morning," Medic managed to correct. There was a slightly pause, and then an audible gasp of realization from Medic's end. "Herr Vidal—where on earth are you—are you all right?!"

"I—I'm fine, docteur, I'm fine, I swear. I know we didn't part on the best of circumstances…"

Another pause, broken by doves cooing in the background. Finally Medic sighed. "Vell, it could have been much worse. Is that vhy you are calling at such an obscene hour in the morning?"

Spy did the math in his head. "It's seven in the morning there!"

"Seven o'clock is an obscene hour to be awake vhen you are supposed to be on vacation," Medic grumbled. He groaned. "Vhat is your reason for calling, then?"

"It's Sniper," Spy's voice lowered and softened automatically, "'e's in trouble."

"…how much trouble?"

"The kind you can't fix with a medi-kit. I was wondering if…"

"Done."

Spy blinked. "I didn't even—"

"There is no other reason you would be calling, ja? Especially me."

The Frenchman winced. "We shouldn't do this over the phone."

"Hm. You are correct on zat score. I vill see you in about two days. Tell our erstwhile Australian to hang on a bit longer for me, all right?"

"'e cannot 'ear me. But I'll pass on the message."

A clink and the droning of a deadline served as Medic's response. Slowly, calmly, Spy settled the receiver back onto the payphone. He stared at the payphone for a minute, bemused at how well that conversation had gone, all things considered.

He took one step backwards, and then was off like a shot.

Dotty was sitting beside Lawrence, gazing at her son with wistful sorrow. When Spy's pounding footsteps drew near, she hastily dried her tears and looked up to him.

The out-of-breath Frenchman held up a finger to say something, and then promptly doubled over in a gasp. He straightened, gulping air. "We can fix this," he croaked, "I know 'ow to fix it. 'elp is coming. A doctor—who can make Lawrence—well again. Completely. Just—'old on, Lawrence—just a bit more."

Dotty reached up and took Lawrence's cold, clammy hand in hers. "Doctor's orders, sweetheart. No dying yet."

**…**

Medic looked down at the phone with a faint, almost fond smile. Something a little like passion was stirring in his chest again.

He stood, stretched, and immediately made for the bathroom, rubbing at the scruff he'd accumulated over the days. This stubble would be the first thing to go. After all, he had to look professional.

A dying man, a narrow window of time, and a world separating the cure?

_Rookie stuff._

**…**

It was December 23rd, and Spy was ready to perform a Christmas miracle.

He stood completely still, unruffled by the soft pitter-patter of rain on the pavement around him. He stood under the canopy of the hospital entryway, rivulets of rainwater trickling around his shoes. The soft buzzing lights from above shimmered through the smoke wafting up from his cigarette. His eyes went unblinking, staring straight ahead into the rain. The steam from the cooling pavement came up in lazy swirls, making the approach of the taxi even more dramatic.

When the car came to a rolling stop, the first thing to emerge was a wide black umbrella.

The second was Medic.

For a moment the two mercenaries simply stared at each other, having nothing to say. Finally Spy jerked his head towards the hospital entrance. Medic followed his lead, closing his umbrella and shaking the drips off of it as they passed through the threshold.

Medic spoke first. "How is he?"

Spy shook his head and pressed a finger to his lips. "Quiet. I've disabled the security cameras for a few minutes, but there are still night-shift workers to worry about."

"Vhat is the obsession with secrecy, hm? Is a Spy a Spy no matter vhat context he's in?"

Spy glanced back at Medic, unamused. "I just don't want to take any chances."

"Is it that bad?"

"Worse," Spy murmured, "much worse."

As he spoke he opened the door to Sniper's room. A curtain had been pulled around his bed, in a silent request for privacy, but somehow it only served to make it look like there was a corpse waiting behind the faded blue sheets.

Spy drew them back, biting his lip. "'e stopped breathing on 'is own. I think 'e's—"

"Only mostly dead."

Spy blinked and then glanced back towards Medic. "Erm…what?"

"Herr Sniper is only mostly dead."

"Mostly…dead?"

"Ja." Medic nodded, leaning forward in order to plant a hand to Sniper's clammy forehead. "It's a very specific term in the medical community." He straightened and moved to the IV drip beside the bed.

Spy quirked an eyebrow. "Meaning?"

"Meaning," Medic glanced over his shoulder, a glint in his eye, "you were getting all vorked up for nothing. Herr Sniper will be fine." From his pocket he withdrew a small vial, the crimson contents swishing, and deposited it into the IV bag, watching with satisfaction as it swirled and dispersed.

Spy resisted the urge to twitch nervously. "Nothing's 'appening—"

Sniper took a great, rattling breath. The heart monitor, which had been inching towards flat, suddenly ticked upwards with a reassuring _beep!_ and all of Sniper's long, lanky frame gave a great shudder, like an engine after a particularly fierce kickstart.

Stunned and dizzy with relief, Spy's legs gave out. The uncomfortable chair that had been his silent nemesis was suddenly an aid, catching him as he collapsed. He buried his head in his hands, listening to the growing strengths of the beeps with a racing heart.

Medic's sturdy surgeon's hand came down on his shoulder, squeezing hard. "He'll be fine. I could not give him too much of ze elixir—it would arouse suspicion—but in a day or two he vill be right as rain."

Spy emerged from behind his hands. He stared forward at Sniper. "Is that the same elixir you used on me?"

"Yes."

"Why…why did you save my life?"

"It seemed like a good idea at the time. Although, to be fair, I thought you dead all these years. Friedrich told me you were dead."

"'e got me out. Out of the infirmary. Before…before they came, 'e made sure I was back on my block. Funny—" a corner of Spy's mouth twitched upwards "—I thought you were dead all this time as well."

Medic chortled grimly, glancing around the dark room. "You know, zhey say hospitals are a breeding ground for ghosts. Perhaps zhey don't always mean the paranormal kind, eh?" His hand slid off of Spy's shoulder.

Spy looked up to him, expression troubled. "We will be able to work together, after all this?"

"Perhaps. To be honest, I was certain the first thing you vere going to do vas punch me in the ze face. Seeing as how you haff not…I taken to mean zhat you haff forgiven me."

Spy looked down again, clasping and unclasping his hands. "There was nothing to forgive. I owed you my life—"

"—and I owed you the life of a brother."

"I suppose…we're even, then."

"Ja."

"It doesn't…solve everything…but it's a good start."

"We can discuss more vhen you get back to ze base." Medic moved away, and Spy whipped around to stare at him.

"What—where are you going?!"

"I haff some business to attend to. Merry Christmas, Herr Spy. And when Sniper awakes, tell him the same." Medic doffed his hat and retreated from the room.

Spy could hear his footsteps echoing down the corridors, but he also knew that trying to stop the doctor would be futile. So instead he chose to curl up into the chair, tucking his legs to his chest and leaning into the hard material, staring at the blinking lights on the monitor without really seeing them.

He wasn't sure how he was supposed to feel. Medic was not the boogeyman from his nightmares. Medic was just a man, like himself, who had done what he could given the circumstances.

Funny. If he had tried to picture of reunion between himself and Medic, he would have shot for something more emotional than whispers in the dark. But, he supposed, there had been enough emotion in the last few days to suffice him for a good, long while.

He uncurled himself from his wounded animal position, and as he did so the tension seemed to leave him in a rush. He sank down further into the chair, eyes heavy with exhaustion. Little by little he drifted into sleep, lulled by the reassurance of Sniper's breathing and the soft, gentle murmurs of benevolent ghosts.

* * *

Current emotion: John Egbert KO'd in his driveway

Hmm...so much left to wrap up, so little time to do it in...

Anyways, hope you guys!

Ciao for now!

~Chaos


	24. Merry Christmas, Maggots

Christmas in July is totally a thing you can't yell at me ahahah.

* * *

_**Chapter Twenty-Three: Merry Christmas, Maggots**_

_Boston, Massachusetts December 24__th__, 8:30 pm_

"It's goin', it's goin', and it's goooone!"

With that triumphant roar a baseball soared upwards and over the stairwell, well out of sight of those in the hallway below. A tell-tale shatter followed an instant later, indicating that something—probably a very expensive sort of something—had just met its demise.

The impromptu ball players froze in unison, paralyzed as footsteps stomped towards them. A dark-haired woman poked her head around the corner, eyes narrowing. "What was that?"

"Uh…Uncle Scout did it!" Jane was quickest to the punch, finger shooting up towards the lanky young man. Instantly the other children followed suit, directing accusations at Scout.

The speedster scowled down at the little brood around him. "No honor among thieves, huh? Er…sorry, Ma."

His mother just shook her head in exasperation. "How many times do I have to tell ya? No playin' ball in the house!"

"Well, what else are we supposed to do?" Scout demanded. "It's too frea—it's too cold and dahk to play outside!"

Her eyes roved around the gathered children. "How about a game of tag? Scout…you're it."

Instantly the children shrieked and scattered in a dozen different directions, leaving Scout to bellow helplessly after them. "Hey—wait a minute—no fair!"

Satisfied, Scout's mother turned on her heel and all but flounced back into the dining room, where the rest of her adult sons sat in a mixture of amused and bemused. Behind her Scout was busy being ambushed by his nieces and nephews, a child dangling off of every limb as he struggled to free himself from the horde.

Inwardly his mother smirked.

Scout might have bought this house for her, but that certainly didn't give him the right to break it just yet.

**…**

_Beecave, Texas December 24__th__, 6:30 pm_

"So…you're sure you like it?"

"Darlin', how many times do I have to keep telling you? If you like, I like it."

With those gentle assurances Dell leaned over and ran his fingers through Irene's cropped red hair, massaging her scalp as he did so. His wife leaned into his touch, a smile flitting across her features.

The Texan duo sat on the carpet in front of a warm fireplace in their living room. The lights were dimmed, save for the multicolored strands of lights twinkling from the Christmas tree. A voice crooned over the radio, singing of Jack Frost and chestnuts.

Sighing contently, Irene leaned into her husband. The firelight danced over her face, making her bright red hair shimmer. She turned towards Dell slightly, nuzzling into his neck. "I missed you so much."

"I missed you too." Dell leaned in, holding her as close to him as possible. After months and months with nothing but occasional phone calls and letters to keep him company…holding his Irene close was paradise.

She was not a traditionally beautiful woman by any means—she was just taller than him, with hard, lean muscles and a stout frame from working on a farm all her life. Many small, slight scars nicked her body, and when she tried for a wide smile one could see she was missing a tooth from a nasty barroom brawl. She had cut her hair short, she had explained to him in an anxious manner, as a matter of convenience.

Irene Conagher was not the woman featured on the covers of magazines. But for Dell, she was everything and then some.

"You feelin' all right, baby?" He slid his hand under her chin, nudging her face upwards. "You look pale."

Irene chuckled at his sudden concern and shook her head. "I'm fine. I just…I'm just going to miss holding you like this."

Dell chuckled and pressed his forehead to hers. He bent down, nuzzling her neck and peppering it with small, affectionate kisses. "Well then…let's make the most of it."

**…**

_? December 24__th__, 8:45 pm_

A lone figure strolled out of a dimly-light house, shoulders slumped in relaxation, blanket wrapped around it securely. The figure looked out over the horizon, admiring the starlight.

**…**

_Scotland, December 24__th__, 11:55 pm_

Wind whispered over the dark surface of the Loch, disturbing the stillness. Ripples swept over the lake, disturbing the dark glass of the water. The calm seemed eternal, impenetrable.

Unfortunately, Soldier didn't know the meaning of the word 'calm'.

The red glare of a patriotic rocket shot upwards with an eye-piercing shriek, shattered all illusions of a calm and holy night. The rocket exploded over the center of the lake, shaking the air.

Far below it sat Soldier and Demoman, both drunk as skunks and celebrating the end of a magnificent hunt. The charred remains of the fearsome Loch Ness hamster roasted slowly over an open fire. Scot and American both toasted their successful venture with another round of Scrumpy's.

Demoman sighed in contentment and stretched back onto the grass. "M'tellin' ya, Doe, this is the life. That beast done yet?" His single eye flickered to the spit.

Soldier sniffed around the burned carcass and nodded. "About done. Might need some sauce, though." From his coat pocket he produced a small jar of sour cream.

Demoman cocked an eyebrow. "Not gonna ask where ye got that." His gaze shifted back towards their makeshift meal with a grin. "Can't wait fer the lads ta get wind of this."

"Affirmative." Soldier grunted as he struggled with the top of the sour cream jar.

Their relative peace was suddenly and quite rudely interrupted by the unmistakable wail of sirens heading straight for them. Apparently the locals were none-too-impressed by rockets firing and the poaching of crypto-zoological creatures. Demoman lifted his head off of the ground a bit and sighed. "Can't let a man have a bloody night off. Even on Christmas!"

"Rude," Soldier muttered, preoccupied with his stubborn sour cream.

The Scot stood up and cracked his knuckles as flashing lights appeared on the horizon. "Sol, how'd ye feel about spendin' Christmas in jail?"

Soldier glanced up, smirking darkly. "Is there any other way to spend it?"

**…**

_Siberia, Russia December 25__th__, 3:00 am_

With a grunt Heavy awoke in the darkness, stirred from a sound sleep by…something. Contrary to popular belief, long years of fighting had left the big man a very light sleeper. So he rolled over onto his back and stared at the ceiling, body tensing as he listened for the sound that had stirred him from slumber.

A faint rapping noise echoed throughout the dark house.

Growling loudly, Heavy rubbed the sleep from his eyes and stood, stooping to pick up trusty Sasha from her own bed. Normally his fists would have sufficed for whichever moron was stomping around his house in the middle of the night. But at three in the morning? Oh no, Sasha was going to have to deal with this guy.

He stomped down the stairs, fearless of the intruder, and listened again for the tapping sound.

It echoed throughout once more, and in an instant Heavy had traced it to the front door.

Suddenly puzzled—surely no robber would be stupid enough to knock on the front door—Heavy eased Sasha to the floor and made his way over to the door, eyebrow quirked.

"кто там?" He demanded to know, voice booming. However, the answer he received was not quite the one he expected, and when the reply came his jaw dropped.

"HEAVY, OPEN UP ZIS DOOR! I AM FREEZING OUT HERE!"

Instantly the bulky Russian wrenched the door open, allowing Medic and a flurry of snow to stumble through. The red-nosed Medic glared up at Heavy and straightened out his glasses. His teeth were chattering and he began to stomp his feet in an effort to warm up. "Vhat took you so long?"

Heavy just gaped at his teammate. "Doktor—thought you were staying in America—"

"Yes, vell," Medic glanced around Heavy's humble home with a quirked eyebrow, "it got too quiet too fast." He rubbed his hands together and blew into them before glaring up at the stunned Heavy. "Vhere is that famous Russian vodka you are always going on about? I didn't travel all ze way out here for nozing, did I?"

Slowly Heavy eased into a grin and shook his head. "I will get it right away." He stepped towards the kitchen, pausing only to rest a hand on Medic's shoulder. "Doktor...is good to see you back as regular self."

"Ja," Medic replied softly, "it is good to be back."

**…**

_?, Australia, December 25__th__ 9:00 am_

"It'll take some getting used to."

"It's….nngah…_it's fine_!"

Giancarlo lurched out of his seat, staggering forward and grabbing the BLU Engineer by the scruff of the neck. The Texas was no slouch, but he was lifted clean off of the floor by Giancarlo's new robotic arm. A bright red eye had replaced his ruined left one, and the pupil scanned Delmond with fury before depositing him once more. The right side of his face—the side that could still emote—contorted in pained fury. He turned away.

Bianca watched the interaction with lips pursed. This was Delmond's finest work yet. He had saved Giancarlo's life—perhaps, by some standards, even improved. Half-man, half-machine…reaping all the benefits of human intuition and supreme technology. She reached out, grasped Giancarlo's hard, metal shoulder with one hand. "I'll get you some painkillers," she murmured.

The Italian just nodded in thanks, clenching his teeth together in an effort to hold back a scream.

Delmond adjusted his goggles, expression unreadable save for the twitching vein in his neck.

Standing far above them in an alcove, nearly hidden in the shadows, stood Blake. The blond watched the quivering Giancarlo with immutable guilt etched into his features. His hands moved by their own accord, tying and looping a piece of string.

Footsteps sounded behind him and Blake winced. But he continued to stare downwards, refusing to acknowledge the presence behind him.

"Man and machine," Gray murmured, folding his hands behind his back, "machine and man. Whatever the cost of your little stunt, Blake, I cannot deny you've been useful thus far."

Blake glanced at Gray, a bead of sweat running down his temple. "I—I—I haven't outlived my usefulness yet, have I?"

"Quite the contrary," Gray replied, steel gray eyes shining in the darkness, "my boy, you've only just begun."

**…**

_New South Wales, December 25__th__, 9:30 am_

"Are you sure about this?"

"Absolutely. It's what's best for you and the baby."

"But not for _you_."

On the last syllable Lizzie's voice dropped. She reached out, pressed her palm to Christian's face. Expression soft, her eyes drifted around his weary face. "You know you don't have to do this."

"You're gonna need a way to support yourself," Christian murmured in return. "I can give you that much."

"Christian…"

"Liz," Christian reached up, planted her hand on his, "it's okay. I'll be here for you, always. Even if…even if I can't be _here_ for you. Someday we can walk down the street arm-in-arm, I promise. But for now…" he sighed, voice trailing off, "for now, we'll have to make do with what we can."

He leaned forward, cupping her head in his hands and kissing her softly, tenderly. She reciprocated with more force, anger and frustration underlying her actions. When they pulled apart, his forehead lowered to rest against hers. Hot breath curled into the air. And then, with a firm squeeze of her shoulder and a peck on the forehead, Christian stood and walked away, thinking, perhaps, that proximity was a dangerous thing where matters of the heart were concerned.

Lizzie watched his retreat with dull eyes, the deed to his pub clutched in one shaking hand.

…

"Lawrence, I think it's high time you woke up."

"Ngggh."

"Lawrence."

"Mmmmmmph."

Gingerly Spy leaned over his bed-ridden comrade and pulled one of his eyelids up, revealing the bleary blue eyes underneath. "Rise and shine."

Irritated by the lack of responsiveness on the part of the Aussie, Spy sat back and crossed his arms over his chest, coughing loudly until, finally, he got one more groan out of Sniper.

Slowly Sniper's eyes fluttered open. For a long moment he stared at the ceiling in a blank, unfocused manner. Then his brow furrowed a bit. His breathing was paced, his hands flat along his sides. Finally, he spoke his first word in five days:

"Orange juice."

The request was weak, the voice hoarse and rusty. Spy leaned forward. "Come again?"

"Orange juice, ya blighter. Need some OJ or somethin'."

"You're missing one vital part of that request," Spy retorted, keeping his relief to a minimum.

The corners of Sniper's mouth turned down in a weak attempt at a snarl. "_Please_ get me some orange juice, ya stupid blighter."

"Better." Spy stood and cloaked, the squeaking of his shoes across the floor giving away his position. The door opened and shut, and the squeaking faded off into silence.

Sniper stared at the ceiling, lacking any real conviction to move. There was a pounding in the back of his head and a dry node in his throat. He wasn't sure what to feel after hovering between life and death for so long. Happiness? Relief? Some great revelation about the nature of the universe?

No, he didn't experience any of those things.

Mostly he just felt tired.

One hand drifted up, almost of its own accord, smoothing along the bandages across his chest. He'd had worse than this. Probably.

Sniper's thoughts were vague and scattered, drifting from topic to topic without any real effort to dwell on them for long. His eyelids slowly sank shut once more, and sleep had nearly overtaken him when a rough shove on his shoulder jolted him to alertness.

Spy, pale behind his mask, eased back the second Sniper's eyes locked on his. "My apologies," he grunted. "Just making sure you're still breathing." He shoved a small paper cup into Sniper's hands. "All they had was apple." He collapsed back into the chair that had almost become a second home, fingers interlocked.

At this point Sniper didn't care much what kind of juice it was. He downed the apple juice eagerly and crumpled the cup in his hand. "Thanks, mate," he managed, more strength in his voice.

Spy shrugged. "Anytime."

With cautious movements Sniper eased himself up, wincing as splinters of pain burrowed into his body. One arm wrapped around his ribs, he looked back to Spy. "What happened?"

"You nearly got yourself killed, that's what 'appened." Spy kept his tone level even as his eyes flashed.

"You're welcome," Sniper muttered.

Spy pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled loudly. "I…I am relieved you're all right, Lawrence. That is all."

Sniper made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. He reached up, scratching at his neck before continuing on, "So, what did I miss?"

"Your sister is going through with 'er divorce."

"Good."

"You're taking it well."

"She don't need him. 'Sides, I can send her money, if she needs any." As he spoke he began to stretch, rousing his body from sleep. "What 'bout…" he fell silent for a moment "…d'you know who did the deed?"

He didn't have to say what the 'deed' was. Spy shifted again. "Evidence suggests it was the BLU Engineer."

"Rotten bastard," Sniper growled, "don't even trust a cowboy, spook."

"Duly noted." Spy's tone was wry. "Considering the circumstances, I contacted the Administrator straight away."

"And?"

"And…there's nothing she can do."

Sniper's head shot up so fast there was an audible crick. He stared at Spy, eyes as round as saucers. "You mean…"

"The BLU Engineer resigned. We should probably stop calling him that, actually."

"You…you don't just resign from BLU or RED! Especially an Engineer, what with all the knowledge they got of everything—"

Spy just shrugged once more.

Sniper's expression darkened. "This stinks worse than a week-old carcass. Something ain't roight about this. BLU ain't just gonna let someone _go_…"

"Lawrence," Spy leaned forward, "for once, I'm going to go against my occupation. I think we should stay _out_ of this…whatever 'this' is. Builders' League United let their Engineer go for a reason. He probably 'as some leverage on them. Leverage that they would _kill_ for. And if they can make their allies permanently alive…then they could keep us permanently dead." His voice was level, but his words were spoken in a quick, hurried manner that betrayed his fear.

Sniper nodded, expression grim. "Fine." His gaze traveled around the room for a minute as he collected his thoughts. He looked back to Spy, head tilted to the side. "What about GI? The robots?"

"It vanished. Overnight." Spy's mien grew darkly playful. "Quite the media frenzy it caused, too. Hundreds of people suddenly unemployed. The CEO and the owner both unavailable for comment."

Sniper arched an eyebrow. "That's it?"

"That's it, I'm afraid. Like I said, Lawrence, for once I am not interested in espionage games. I 'ave a good sense of self-preservation, you know."

At that Sniper scoffed. "Of course. S'not loike you were the one who got us into trouble in the first place."

"I apologized for that." Miffed, Spy raised a finger towards Sniper. "You just weren't awake to 'ear it."

"It was a koi pond."

That was the last retort Spy expected. He blinked, frowned, and wondered if Medic's formula had addled Sniper's brains any. "Come again?"

"It was a koi pond ya tripped me into, not a water fountain. I should know, kept findin' the little fellas in my trousers after."

Recognition clicked. Spy's eyes widened, and then narrowed, and then his features contorted in fury. "You _bastard_! You were awake?!"

"Not…not really—" Sniper recoiled slightly, "—jus' enough to hear what ya were sayin'! Come on, Phil, the only time people ever really sing your praises is when yer on yer deathbed!"

Spy's arms shot out, fingers twitching with the urge to wrap themselves around Sniper's neck. When his rational mind cut in, reminding him of all the effort that had gone into saving this ungrateful arse of an Aussie, he settled for throwing the closest object at him—a box of tissues.

The tissues bounced harmlessly off of Sniper, producing a few low guffaws from the bushman. Spy fumed. "Fine. I suppose you won't be getting your present, then."

"Present?" Sniper repeated. "You got me a present?"

"Oui, that's the tradition of Christmas, isn't it? Give each other gifts that we'll forget in six months and gorge on gingerbread men? Unfortunately I don't have any gingerbread with me at the moment, so this will have to do." He reached into his suit and withdrew a small, slim box, handing it to Sniper without further comment.

Sniper unwrapped the gift eagerly, only to tilt his head to the side when he saw the plain, nondescript watch nestled inside tissue paper. "Thanks, spook."

Spy rolled his eyes. "Try putting it on."

Puzzled, Sniper did as Spy asked, strapping on the watch and examining it further. "S'a good fit…" His thumb slid over a small button, pressing into it. Instantly a trickling sensation overwhelmed his whole body, as if he had been doused head-to-toe in cold water. Startled, Sniper looked down at his watch again—only to find himself gone. "Holy dooley!"

After another few seconds the illusion faded. Dazed, Sniper turned back to the smirking Spy. "Where did ya—"

"Consider it a parting gift from Gray Industries." Spy grinned.

"I won't be able to use this on the battlefield. S'probably illegal."

"I know. But if you ever find yourself rushing headlong into the permanent kind of danger again…well, there's your backup plan."

"Ah, Phil, I didn't know you cared so much."

"Don't get used to it." Spy snapped, reclining in his chair once more. One hand drifted towards his pocket, looking for his cigarette case. After a brief pause he added, softly, "Merry Christmas, Lawrence."

Sniper settled back into his pillow, hands resting on his chest. "Merry Christmas, Phil."

**…**

_January 2__nd__, 7:30 am_

For the fourth time in as many minutes, Dotty leaned forward and played with the red scarf around Spy's neck. "You take good care of yourself out there, and take care of Lawrence too."

"Of course." Spy replied, trying not to sound exasperated. He'd been making this promise for the last hour. "Dotty," his voice lowered, "the scarf is wonderful."

It was a subtle cue. Dotty eased back, patting Spy on the shoulder as she did so. "Come back next year, darling, and we'll show you the sights."

"You'll have a baby to visit next year too!" Lizzie exclaimed. She bounced forward, features flushed, and wrapped Spy in a tight hug. "And no death-defying stunts, either."

"I look forward to a quiet, death-less occasion." Spy assured her, reciprocating the hug gently. "Until such time, my dear, I have to bid you adieu." He took her hand in his, radiating roguish charm, and planted a kiss on the back of her hand, not breaking contact until Lizzie was blushing and Christian was coughing loudly.

At the outburst from the Aborigine Spy straightened. He winked at Lizzie and Dotty before turning around to face Christian. Christian studied him for a moment before sticking his hand out. "You're all right, Frenchie. Try to keep Mundy out of trouble."

Spy accepted his proffered hand with a firm shake. "I'll do my best."

And with that, he turned on his heel and made a beeline for the van, wondering what on earth was taking Sniper so long.

For the Aussie was standing in his childhood bedroom, casting glances around with wistful eyes. The old toys, the bunk-bed, the photos immortalizing his young self. He picked up the picture of himself and Lizzie fishing, smile soft. It was with a heavy sigh that he put it back down again. Part of him—and it was a part of him that commanded more strength than he had supposed—didn't want to leave.

"Junior? Phil's jumpin' at the bit to leave. You're going to miss your flight if you stick around. Unless that's what you were planning to do."

At the sound of his father's voice Sniper turned.

And for an instant, they were identical.

Both tall, gangly men with large ears and squinty eyes hidden by glasses. Both dressed in plain, unassuming clothes. Both leaning heavily on canes, the results of injuries both had incurred by saving lives. Both soldiers, fighters who were getting far too old for this world, far too fast.

Sniper cleared the tension first. "Dad…I, uh, hope the phone calls home will be a bit more civil from now on."

Senior's eyes flicked down to the white-knuckled grip Sniper had on his new cane. His mouth hardened into a fine line, and he nodded.

Sniper followed his gaze. "This? Don't worry, Dad, this will be cleared up soon enough! I'll be right as rain, you'll see!"

Senior nodded. "Lawrence…"

"Hm?"

"Just promise me you'll call home as often as you can. You know your mother, if she goes two days without a phone call she'll be out of her mind with worry."

Sniper chuckled. "Yeah, Dad, I promise."

"Good. Now, get out! Crazed gunman or no, you've got a paycheck to earn!"

…

"So."

"So?"

"So…"

From the driver's seat Spy cast a glance at Sniper, eyebrow quirked. "So…?"

Sniper fiddled with his cane, staring at the miles of empty road ahead of them. "That could have gone a lot better."

"Your goodbyes, or the trip in general?"

"The trip in general," Sniper admitted, frowning as he looked back on the chaos of the last two weeks. "I suppose this wasn't the best introduction to Oz."

Spy kept one eye on his teammate, the other on the road. "Well," he said after a brief moment, "we're going to 'ave to try again next year."

Brow furrowed as he processed the words, Sniper looked to Spy quickly, eyes all but shining. "Ya mean it?"

"Of course. I don't think your mother would let me stay away, in any case." A small smile tugged at Spy's lips.

Sniper stared at him, incredulous and delighted, before settling back into his seat. "Yeah…all right, then. Next Christmas."

The battered, beaten old van sped on into the horizon, leaving home behind bit by bit.

**…**

_?_

It was with a clear and evident fury that Helen slammed a manila folder down onto the desktop, staring at it as though willing it to burst into flames. When it didn't, she snarled a few curses under her breath. She linked her fingers together, smoking cigarette dangling loosely from her lips. She seemed to be considering something, weighing pros and cons and consequences as an unfortunate series of events unfolded in her mind's eyes.

When she was sure that her calculations were correct, she swiveled around in her chair to meet the eyes of the slim, silent Australian who had handed her the file. "How much does Hale know?"

"Not much," the man replied, folding his hands in front of him, "and I assume you want it kept that way?"

"Indeed. Good work. Return to your post."

He nodded once and turned on his heel to leave. Another word from Helen had him stopping in his tracks, however.

Helen's eyes shone in the darkness. "Mister Bidwell, please inform all necessary personnel that Operation Countdown is effective immediately."

* * *

One chapter to go, and I can't help but feel like nothing got accomplished.

Maybe that was the point.

*sunglasses*


End file.
